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LITTLE    MASTERPIECES 


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Little   Masterpieces 

Edited  by  Bliss  Perry 


WASHINGTON    IRVING 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE 

LEGEND    OF   SLEEPY    HOLLOW 

THE    DEVIL    AND    TOM    WALKER 

THE    VOYAGE 

WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN 


NEW    YORK 
DOUBLEDAY   &    McCLURE    CO. 

1902 


Copyright,  1807,  by 

DCUBLEDAY    &    McClURE    Co, 


Acknowledgment  is  due  to  Messrs.   G.  P.  Putnam's  Soni 

/or  permission  to  use  the  text  0/  the  authorized 

edition  of  Irving  s    works. 


Introduction 


% 


Introduction 


In  "  The  Author's  Account  of  Himself," 
which  prefaces  "  The  Sketch-Book,"  Geoffrey 
Crayon  compares  himself  with  the  unlucky 
landscape  painter  who  had  sketched  in 
nooks  and  corners  and  by-places,  but  had 
neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's  and  the  Col- 
iseum, and  had  not  a  single  glacier  or  vol- 
cano in  his  whole  collection.  This  restric- 
tion in  theme,  which  Irving  whimsically 
confesses,  was  in  part,  no  doubt,  as  he 
would  have  us  believe,  the  result  of  follow- 
ing the  bent  of  a  vagrant  inclination,  but  it 
was  also  an  evidence  of  the  happiest  ar- 
tistic instinct.  One  of  Irving's  most  inti- 
mate friends  has  noted  his  "  wonderful 
knack  at  shutting  his  eyes  to  the  sinister 
side  of  anything."  To  ignore  the  sinister 
side  of  life  is  to  restrict  one's  art;  but 
Irving  was  led  by  a  faultless  taste  to  those 
subjects  that  lay  well  within  his  powers. 
Better  than  most  authors  of  equal  rank,  he 
knew  what  to  avoid.  In  his  unfailing  sense 
of  proportion,  purity  of  feeling,  and  fine  re- 


Introduction 

serve,  he  recalls  some  of  the  best  eighteenth 
century  writers.  He  learned  from  them  not 
only  the  art  of  character  drawing,  but  the 
doctrine  that  an  author's  aim  should  be  "  the 
diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure."  "  One  of 
the  most  charming  masters  of  our  lighter 
language,"  declared  Thackeray,  in  praising 
the  "  good  Irving,  the  peaceful,  the  friendly," 
— "  the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New 
World  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old." 

The  classic  qualities  of  style  which  won 
Thackeray's  admiration  were  the  expression 
of  a  nature  polished  and  refined,  of  a  gen- 
tle and  kindly  heart.  Irving's  humor  is  sly, 
but  not  malicious.  The  tone  of  pleasant 
banter  is  never  broken.  Except  in  the  serious 
histories,  to  which  his  later  years  were  de- 
voted, he  is  fond  of  elaborate  chaffing. 
Yet  his  ironies  are  upon  the  surface;  there 
is  no  undertone  of  bitterness;  he  shuts  his 
eyes  to  the  sinister  side.  Even  his  carica- 
tures are  marked  by  a  delicate  restraint,  and, 
writing  in  a  generation  when  "  sentiment  " 
was  the  fashion,  he  kept  within  the  bouads 
of  manly  feeling  and  good  sense. 

Irving  wrote,  in  short,  as  he  lived,  like  a 
gentleman — like  a  sunnier  Addison,  a  more 
fortunate  Goldsmith.  Such  writing  lasts. 
The  service  which  Irving  performed  for 
American  letters  in  his  day  is  of  course  ac- 
complished, and  those  peculiar  conditions 
can  never  recur.  Yet  if  anything  hitherto 
viii 


Introduction 

written  in  America  is  certain  to  be  read  in 
the  future,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  and  "  The 
Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  "  will  not  be  for- 
gotten. History,  local  tradition,  and  land- 
scape blend  here  in  most  gracious  harmony 
with  the  quiet,  mellow  tones  of  Irving's  art. 
In  the  present  volume  they  are  printed  first, 
followed  by  "  The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker  " 
(from  "The  Tales  of  a  Traveller"),  where 
Irving  has  adopted,  in  handling  a  New  Eng- 
land legend,  a  method  somewhat  similar  to 
that  employed  in  the  Hudson  River  ro- 
mances. The  English  portions  of  "  The 
Sketch-Book"  are  introduced  by  "The  Voy- 
age," a  felicitous  and  most  characteristic 
composition.  "  Westminster  Abbey "  and 
"  Stratford-on-Avon "  deal  with  subjects 
perpetually  interesting  to  American  readers, 
and  have  done  much  in  guiding  the  steps  of 
American  travellers  in  England.  The  volume 
closes  with  a  sketch  from  "  Bracebridge 
Hall  "  entitled  "  The  Stout  Gentleman," 
which  has  been  characterized  by  Mr.  Charles 
Dudley  Warner  as  one  of  Irving's  daintiest 
and  most  artistic  bits  of  restrained  humor. 

Bliss  Perry. 


CONTENTS 


Editor's    Introduction 
Rip  Van  Winkle 

{From  Sketch  Book} 

Legend   of  Sleepy   Hollow 

{From  Sketch  Book) 

The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

{From  Tales  of  a  Traveller) 

The  Voyage 

{Fro?n  Sketch  Book) 

Westminster    Abbey 

{From  Sketch  Book) 

Stratford-on-Avon 

{From  Sketch  Book) 

The  Stout  Gentleman 

{From  Bracebridge  Hall) 


PAGE 
V 


91 
115 

129 
149 

.   181 


Rip  Van  Winkle 

A    POSTHUMOUS    WRITING  OF    DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 


Rip    Van    Winkle 

A    POSTHUMOUS    WRITING    OF  DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre  — - —  Cartwright. 

[The  following  tale  was  found  among  the 
papers  of  the  late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was 
very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the 
province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descend- 
ants from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  his- 
torical researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so 
much  among  books  as  among  men;  for  the 
former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite 
topics;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers, 
and  still  more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  le- 
gendary lore  so  invaluable  to  true  history. 
Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a 
genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its 
low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading 
sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped 
volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with 
the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 


Washington   Irving 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a 
history  of  the  province  during  the  reign  of 
the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published 
some  years  since.  There  have  been  various 
opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his 
work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a 
whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit 
is  its  scrupulous  accuracj^,  which  indeed  was 
a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance, 
but  has  since  been  completely  established; 
and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical 
collections  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  au- 
thority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the 
publication  of  his  work;  ana  now  that  he  is 
dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to 
his  memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have 
been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  la- 
bors. He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his 
hobby  in  his  own  way;  and  though  it  did  now 
and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the 
eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit 
of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest 
deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors  and 
follies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that 
he  never  intended  to  injure  or  offend.  But 
however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by 
critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk 
whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth  having; 
particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who 
have  gone   so   far  as   to   imprint  his  likeness 

4 


Rip  Van  Winkle 

on  their  New  Year  cakes;  and  have  thus 
given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost 
equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo 
medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 


Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hud- 
son must  remember  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains. They  are  a  dismembered  branch  of 
the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen 
away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up 
to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the 
surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  sea- 
son, every  change  of  weather,  indeed,  every 
hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change  in 
the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  moun- 
tains, and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers. 
When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they 
are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print 
their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening  sky; 
but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood 
of  gray  vapors  about  their  summits,  which, 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow 
and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the 
voyager  may  have  descried  the  light  smoke 
curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle- 
roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the 
fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is 
5 


Washington   Irving 

a  little  village,  of  great  antiquity,  having 
been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists 
in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about 
the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good 
Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace!), 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  tbe 
original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years, 
built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from 
Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and  gable 
fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these 
very  houses  (which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth, 
was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather-beaten), 
there  lived,  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the 
name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  de- 
scendant of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured 
so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the 
siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  inherited,  how- 
ever, but  little  of  the  martial  character  of 
his  ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was 
a  simple,  good-natured  man;  he  was,  more- 
over, a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen- 
pecked husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of 
spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal  pop- 
ularity; for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be 
obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad  who  are 
under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered 
6 


Kip  Van   Winkle 


pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of 
domestic  tribulation;  and  a  curtain-lecture 
is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for 
teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long- 
suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore, 
in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable 
blessing;  and,  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was 
thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite 
among  all  the  good  wives  of  the  village, 
who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his 
part  in  all  family  squabbles;  and  never 
failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 
over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all 
the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  chil- 
dren of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with 
joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted 
at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught 
them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and 
told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches, 
and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging 
about  the  village  he  was  surrounded  by  a 
troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clam- 
bering on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand 
tricks  on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a 
dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the 
neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was 
an  insuperable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  prof- 
itable labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the  want 
of  assiduity  or  perseverance,  for  he  would 
sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and 


Washington   Irving 

heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day 
without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should 
not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He 
would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder 
for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods 
and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to 
shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even 
in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man 
at  all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian 
corn  or  building  stone  fences;  the  women 
of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to 
run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would 
not  do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready 
to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own; 
but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his 
farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to 
work  on  his  farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent 
little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  country; 
everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would 
go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were 
continually  falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would 
either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages; 
weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields 
than  anywhere  else;  the  rain  always  made 
a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some 
out-of-door  work  to  do;  so  that  though  his 
patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under 
his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there 
was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of 
8 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the 
worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild 
as  if  they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip, 
an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old 
clothes,  of  his  father.  He  was  generally 
seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's 
heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast- 
off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does 
her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of 
those  happy  mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled 
dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat 
white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got 
with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would 
rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have 
whistled  life  away  in  perfect  contentment; 
but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his 
ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness  and 
the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family. 
Morning,  noon  and  night,  her  tongue  was 
incessantly  going,  and  everything  he  said 
or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way 
of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and 
that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a 
habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his 
head,   cast   up    his   eyes,    but    said    nothing. 


Washington   Irving 

This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  vol- 
ley from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was  fain  to 
draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside 
of  the  house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth, 
belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog 
Wolf,  who  was  as  much  hen-pecked  as  his 
master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even 
looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the 
cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 
True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting 
an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an 
animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods;  but  what 
courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and 
all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue? 
The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his 
crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground, 
or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about 
with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the 
least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  be 
would  fly  to  the  door  wTith  yelping  precipi- 
tation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip 
Van  Winkle  as  years  of  matrimony  rolled 
on;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age, 
and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool 
that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For 
a  long  while  he  used  to  console  himself, 
when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a 
kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philoso- 
10 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


pliers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the  vil- 
lage, which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  be- 
fore a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund 
portrait  of  His  Majesty,  George  the  Third. 
Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a 
long,  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly 
over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have 
been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have 
heard  the  profound  discussions  that  some- 
times took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old 
newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some 
passing  traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would 
listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by 
Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a 
dapper,  learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to 
be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in 
the  dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would 
deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months 
after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junta  were  completely 
controlled  by  Nicholas  Vedcler,  a  patriarch 
of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the 
door  of  whicn  he  took  his  seat  from  morning 
till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid 
the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large 
tree;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the 
hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by 
a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to 
speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His 
adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man  has 
his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him, 
11 


Washington   Irving 

and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
When  anything  that  was  read  or  related  dis- 
pleased him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his 
pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short, 
frequent,  and  angry  puffs;  but  when 
pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 
and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and 
placid  clouds;  and  sometimes,  taking  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely 
nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect  appro- 
bation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky 
Rip  was  at  length  routed  by  his  termagant 
wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in  upon  the 
tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the 
members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august 
personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  vi- 
rago, who  charged  him  outright  with  en- 
couraging her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to 
despair;  and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape 
from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor  of  his 
wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  strol1 
away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  some- 
times  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and 
share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf, 
with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow 
sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he 
would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I 
12 


Rip  Van   Winkle 


live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand 
by  thee!  "  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look 
wistfully  in  his  master's  face;  and  if  dogs 
can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated 
the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine 
autumnal  day,  Rip  had  unconsciously 
scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his 
favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with 
the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fa- 
tigued, he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  moun- 
tain herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a 
precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the 
trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  coun- 
try for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He 
saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far, 
far  below  him,  moving  on  his  silent  but 
majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  pur- 
ple cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here 
and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bottom,  and 
at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a 
deep  mountain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and 
shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments 
from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on 
this  scene;  evening  was  gradually  advanc- 
ing; the  mountains  began  to  throw  their 
13 


Washington   Irving 

long,  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw 
that  it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could 
reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a  heavy 
sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the 
terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a 
voice  from  a  distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  Rip  Van  Winkle!  "  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow 
winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun- 
tain. He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  de- 
ceived him,  and  turned  again  to  descend, 
when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through 
the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van  Winkle! 
Rip  Van  Winkle!  " — at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl, 
skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fear- 
fully down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a 
vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him;  he 
looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up 
the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of 
something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this 
lonely  and  unfrequented  place;  but  suppos- 
ing it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down 
to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  sur- 
prised at  the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  ap- 
pearance. He  was  a  short,  square-built  old 
fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled 
14 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch 
fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist — several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer 
one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows 
of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at 
the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout 
keg  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made 
signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful 
of  this  new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with 
his  usual  alacrity;  and  mutually  relieving 
one  another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow 
gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long,  rolling  peals,  like  dis- 
tant thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a 
deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty 
rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path  con- 
ducted. He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  sup- 
posing it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
transient  thunder  showers  which  often  take 
place  in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded. 
Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a 
hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur- 
rounded by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the 
brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot  their 
branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses 
of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his 
companion  had  labored  on  in  silence;  for 
though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what 
could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 
15 


Washington  Irving 

liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was 
something  strange  and  incomprehensible 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and 
checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects 
of  wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level 
spot  in  the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd- 
looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fash- 
ion; some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jer- 
kins, with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches  of 
similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar:  one  had  a 
large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small,  piggish 
eyes;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist 
entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a 
white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little 
red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards  of  va- 
rious shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who 
seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a 
stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten 
countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad 
belt  and  hanger,  high  crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled 
shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole 
group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an 
old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dom- 
inie Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and 
which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland 
at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was, 
16 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


that,  though  these  folks  were  evidently 
amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party 
of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but 
the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever 
they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains 
like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached 
them,  they  suddenly  desisted  from  their 
play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed, 
statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth, 
lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart 
turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  to- 
gether. Kis  companion  now  emptied  the 
contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and 
made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company. 
He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and 
then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension 
subsided.  He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye 
was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of 
excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat 
the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another; 
and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so 
often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  over-pow- 
ered, his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, his  head  grad- 
ually declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 
17 


Washington   Irving 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green 
knoll  whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man 
of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a 
bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes, 
and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast- 
ing the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely." 
thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before 
he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a 
keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild 
retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone 
party  at  ninepins — the  flagon — "  Oh!  that 
flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!  "  thought  Rip — 
"  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van 
Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place 
of-  the  clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he 
fuund  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him.  the  bar- 
rel incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off, 
and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  sus- 
pected that  the  grave  roisterers  of  the  moun- 
tain had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and.  having 
dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his 
gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he 
might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or 
partridge.  He  whistled  after  him.  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the 
echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but 
no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

•    He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the 
last   evening's  gambol,   and   if  he   met   with 
■    18 


Rip   Van   Winkle 


any  of  the  party  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun. 
As  he  rose  to  walk  he  found  himself  stiff 
in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  ac- 
tivity. "These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic 
should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheuma- 
tism, I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame 
Van  Winkle  ! "  With  some  difficulty  he  got 
down  into  the  glen  ;  he  found  the  gully  up 
which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonish- 
ment a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming 
down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  fill- 
ing the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He, 
however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides, 
working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets 
of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the 
wild  grape-vines  that  twisted  their  coils  or 
tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine 
had  opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  am- 
phitheatre ;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high,  im- 
penetrable wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and 
fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest. 
Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 
He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog ; 
he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a 
19 


Washington   Irvin< 


flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about 
a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice; 
and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed 
to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's 
perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  The 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt 
famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He 
grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun;  he 
dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it  would  not 
do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook 
his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and, 
with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a 
number  of  people,  but  none  whom  he  knew, 
which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he  had 
thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one 
in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was 
of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which 
he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him 
with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever 
they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recur- 
rence of  this  gesture,  induced  Rip,  invol- 
untarily, to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  as- 
tonishment, he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a 
foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  vil- 
lage. A  troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his 
heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing  at  his 
gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which 
he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance, 
20 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


barked  at  him  as  lie  passed.  The  very  vil- 
lage was  altered;  it  was  larger  and  more 
populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which 
he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which 
had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disap- 
peared. Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
— strange  faces  at  the  windows — everything 
was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him; 
he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the 
world  around  him  were  not  bewitched. 
Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he 
had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood 
the  Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  sil- 
ver Hudson  at  a  distance — there  was  every 
hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 
been.  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed.  "  That 
flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled 
my  poor  head  sadly!  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found 
the  way  to  his  own  house,  which  he  ap- 
proached with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to 
decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows 
shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A 
half-starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was 
skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name, 
but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and 
passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed. 
"  My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  for- 
gotten me!  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the 
21 


Washington   Irving 

truth,  Dame  Van  Winkle  had  always  kept 
in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and 
apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness 
overcame  all  his  connubial  fears — he  called 
loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the  lonely 
chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voico, 
and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  hi  6 
old  resort,  the  village  inn' — but  it,  too,  was 
gone.  A  large,  rickety  wooden  building 
stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  win- 
dows, some  of  them  broken  and  mended  with 
old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door 
was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jona- 
than Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree 
that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch 
inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that 
looked  like  a  red  nightcap,  and  from  it  was 
fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singula;-' 
assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes; — all  this 
was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  rec- 
ognized on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face 
of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked 
so  many  a  peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was 
singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat 
was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a 
sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a 
cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in 
large  characters,  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about 
22 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


the  door,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The 
very  character  of  the  people  seemed  changed. 
There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed 
phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked 
in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with 
his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long 
pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  in- 
stead of  idle  speeches;  or  Van  Bummel,  the 
schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an 
ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean, 
bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full 
of  hand-bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently 
about  rights  of  citizens — elections — members 
of  Congress — liberty — Bunker's  Hill — heroes 
of  '76 — and  other  words,  which  were  a 
perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered 
Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long 
grizzled  beard,  his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his 
uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and 
children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from  head 
to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator 
bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly 
aside,  inquired  "  On  which  side  he  voted?  " 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another 
short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by 
the  arm.  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in 
his  ear,  "  Whether  he  was  Federal  or  Demo- 
crat?"    Rip  was   equally   at  a  loss  to   com- 


Washington   Irving 

prehend  the  question;  when  a  knowing,  self- 
important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked 
hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his 
elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself 
before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes 
and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into 
his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone. 
"  What  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a 
gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels: 
and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in 
the  village?"  —  "Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried 
Fap,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor, 
quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal 
subject  of  the  King,  God  bless  him!  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by- 
standers— "A  tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  ref- 
ugee! hustle  him!  away  with  him!  " 
It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored 
order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  au- 
sterity of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  un- 
known culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and 
whom  he  was  seeking?  The  poor  man 
humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of 
his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 
Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  in- 
auired,  "Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?  " 
24 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while, 
when  an  old  man  replied,  in  a  thin,  piping 
voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder!  Why,  he  is  dead 
and  gone  these  eighteen  years!  There  was 
a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten 
and  gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war;  some  say  he  was  killed 
at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point — others  say 
he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of 
Antony's  Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never 
came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmas- 
ter? " 

"  lie  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a 
great  militia  general,  and  is  now  in  con- 
gress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these 
sad  changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and 
finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating 
of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of 
matters  which  he  could  not  understand: 
war — congress — Stony  Point — he  had  no 
courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but 
cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle?  " 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two 
or  three,  "  oh,  to  be  sure !  that's  Rip  Van 
Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 


Washington   Irving 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counter- 
part of  himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mcun  • 
tain;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as 
ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  compleielv 
confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and 
whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 
In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man 
in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and 
what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits' 
end;  "  I'm  not  myself — I'm  somebody  else — 
that's  me  yonder — no — that's  somebody  else 
got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and 
they've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's 
changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell 
what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!  " 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each 
other,  nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their 
fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There  was  a 
whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and 
keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief, 
at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired 
with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical 
moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed 
through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray- 
bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began 
to  cry.  "  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you 
little  fool;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you." 
The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the 
26 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened 
a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What 
is  your  name,  my  good  woman?  "  asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his 
name,  but  it's  twenty  years  since  he  went 
away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never  has 
been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home 
without  him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself, 
or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.    I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask; 
but  he  put  it  with  a  faltering  voice: 

"  Where's  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  she,  too,  had  died  but  a  short  time 
since;  she  broke  a  blood  vessel  in  a  fit  of 
passion  at  a  New  England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in 
this  intelligence.  The  honest  man  could  con- 
tain himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his 
daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I 
am  your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle 
now! — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman, 
tottering  out  from  among  the  crowd,  put  her 
hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under  it  in 
his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure 
enough!  It  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  him- 
self!     Welcome   home   again,    old   neighbor. 


Washington  Irving 

Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole 
twenty  years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one 
night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they 
heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks; 
and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  re- 
turned to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head — 
upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of 
the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the 
opinion  of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was 
seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that 
name,  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts 
of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  an- 
cient inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  tra- 
ditions of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected 
Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in 
the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured 
the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down 
from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the 
Kaatskill  mountains  had  always  been 
haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson, 
the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  coun- 
try, kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty 
years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half -moon;  be- 
28 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


ing  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guar- 
dian eye  upon  the  river  and  the  great  city 
called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had 
once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses 
playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun- 
tain; and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one 
summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls, 
like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company 
broke  up  and  returned  to  the  more  impor- 
tant concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daugh- 
ter took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout, 
cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  rec- 
ollected for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to 
climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and 
heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen 
leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed 
to  work  on  the  farm;  but  evinced  an  hered- 
itary disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else 
but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits; 
he  soon  found  many  of  his  former  cronies, 
though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the  wear  and 
tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he 
soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being 

arrived  at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can 

be    idle   with    impunity,    he    took    his    place 

once   more   on   the   bench   at   the   inn    door, 

29 


Washington   Irving 

and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs 
of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old 
times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of 
gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the 
strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during 
his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  rev- 
olutionary war — that  the  country  had  thrown 
off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  in- 
stead of  being  a  subject  of  His  Majesty, 
George  III.,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of 
the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  poli- 
tician; the  changes  of  states  and  empires 
made  but  little  impression  on  him;  but  there 
was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which 
he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat 
government.  Happily  that  was  at  an  end; 
he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  when- 
ever he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyr- 
anny of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her 
name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his 
head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up 
his  eyes;  which  might  pass  either  for  an 
expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate  or  joy 
at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger 
that  arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was 
observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some  points 
every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless, 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked. 
It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the 
30 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman, 
or  child  in  the  neighborhood  but  knew  it  by 
heart.  Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the 
reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been 
out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point 
on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The 
old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  uni- 
versally gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day 
they  never  hear  a  thunder  storm  of  a  sum- 
mer afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they 
say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at 
their  game  of  ninepins;  and  it  is  a  common 
wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands  in  the 
neighborhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on 
their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a  quieting 
draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


NOTE. 

The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had 
been  suggested  to  Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a 
little  German  superstition  about  the  Em- 
peror Frederick  der  Rothbart,  and  the  Kypp- 
hauser  mountain:  the  subjoined  note,  how- 
ever, which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale, 
shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated 
with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem 

incredible    to    many,    but   nevertheless    I    give 

it  my  full  belief,    for  I   know   the  vicinity   of 

our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very 

31 


Washington  Irvine; 

subject  to  marvellous  events  and  appear- 
ances. Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger 
stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the 
Hudson;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authen- 
ticated to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even 
talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who, 
when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  venerable 
old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  con- 
sistent on  every  other  point,  that  I  think 
no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take 
this  into  the  bargain;  nay,  I  have  seen  a 
certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  coun- 
try justice  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the 
justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  there- 
fore, is  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt. 

"  D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a 
memorandum  book  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker: 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have 
always  been  a  region  full  of  fable.  The  In- 
dians considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits, 
who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sun- 
shine or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  send- 
ing good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were 
ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be 
their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak 
of  the  Catskills.  and  had  charge  of  the  doors 
of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at 
the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new 
32 


Rip  Van  Winkle 


moon  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones 
into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  prop- 
erly propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  sum- 
mer clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew, 
and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the 
mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of 
carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air;  until,  dis- 
solved by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall 
in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to 
spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to 
grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  how- 
ever, she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink, 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle- 
bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  val- 
leys! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions, 
there  was  a  kind  of  Manitou  or  Spirit,  who 
kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Cats- 
kill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleas- 
ure in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexa- 
tions upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would 
assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a 
deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary 
chase  through  tangled  forests  and  among 
ragged  rocks;  and  then  spring  off  with  a 
loud  ho!  ho!  leaving  him  aghast  on  the 
brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging  tor- 
rent. . 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still 
shown.  It  is  a  great  rock  or  cliff  on  the 
loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from 
33 


Washington  Irving 


the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it, 
and  the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its 
neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small 
lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with 
water-snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the 
leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the 
surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great  awe 
by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  boldest 
hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within 
its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a 
hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to 
the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  num- 
ber of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees. 
One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it, 
but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it 
fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream 
gushed  forth,  which  washed  him  away  and 
swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its 
way  to  the  Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow 
to  the  present  day;  being  the  identical 
stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters- 
kill. 


34 


The      Legend      of     Sleepy 
Hollow 

FOUND     AMONG     THE     PAPERS     OF     THE 
LATE    DIEDRICH     KNICKERBOCKER 


35 


The      Legend      of     Sleepy 
Hollow 

FOUND      AMONG     THE     PAPERS     OF     THE 
LATE     DIEDRICH    KNICKERBOCKER 


A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious 
coves  which  indent  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of  the  river 
denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  naviga- 
tors the  Tappan  Zee,  and  where  they  always 
prudently  shortened  sail,  and  implored  the 
protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed, 
there  lies  a  small  market  town  or  rural  port 
which  by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but 
which  is  more  generally  and  properly  known 
by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name  was 
given,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the 
good  housewives  of  the  adjacent  country, 
from  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their  hus- 
bands to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on 
37 


Washington   Irving 

market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not 
vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it 
for  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic. 
Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  two 
miles,  there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather,  lap 
of  land,  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of 
the  quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A 
small  brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  mur- 
mur enough  to  lull  one  to  repose  ;  and  the 
occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a 
woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that 
ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first 
exploit  in  squirrel  shooting  was  in  a  grove 
of  tall  walnut  trees  that  shades  one  side  of 
the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon- 
time, when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and 
was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as 
it  broke  the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and 
was  prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  angry 
echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat, 
whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and 
its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the 
remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none 
more  promising  than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and 
the  peculiar  character  of  its  inhabitants, 
who  are  descendants  from  the  original  Dutch 
settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been 
known  by  the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and 
its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow 
Boys  throughout  all  the  neighboring  coun- 
38 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

try.  A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to 
hang  over  the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very 
atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was 
bewitched  by  a  High  German  doctor,  during 
the  early  days  of  the  settlement;  others, 
that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or 
wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  pow-wows  there 
before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Mas- 
ter Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the 
place  still  continues  under  the  sway  of  some 
witching  power  that  holds  a  spell  over  the 
minds  of  the  good  people,  causing  them  to 
walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are 
given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs;  are 
subject  to  trances  and  visions;  and  fre- 
quently see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music 
and  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighbor- 
hood abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted 
spots,  and  twilight  superstitions;  stars 
shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the 
valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  coun- 
try, and  the  nightmare,  with  her  whole  nine- 
fold, seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of 
her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts 
this  enchanted  region,  and  seems  to  be  com- 
mander-in-chief of  all  the  powers  of  the  air, 
is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback 
without  a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be 
the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head 
had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball,  in 
some  nameless  battle  during  the  Revolution- 
39 


Washington   Irving 

ary  War,  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen 
by  the  country  folk,  hurrying  along  in  the 
gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind.  His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the 
valley,  but  extend  at  times  to  the  adjacent 
roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a 
church  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed  cer- 
tain of  the  most  authentic  historians  of  those 
parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting 
and  collating  the  floating  facts  concerning 
this  spectre,  allege  that  the  body  of  the 
trooper,  having  been  buried  in  the  church- 
yard, the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of 
battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head;  and  that 
the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes 
passes  along  the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight 
blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and 
in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  churchyard 
before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legend- 
ary superstition,  which  has  furnished  mate- 
rials for  many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of 
shadows;  and  the  spectre  is  known,  at  all 
the  country  firesides,  by  the  name  of  the 
Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  pro- 
pensity I  have  mentioned  is  not  confined  to 
the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is 
unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who  re- 
sides there  for  a  time.  However  wide  awake 
they  may  have  been  before  they  entered  that 
sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time, 
40 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air, 
and  begin  to  grow  imaginative,  to  dream 
dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  pos- 
sible laud;  for  it  is  in  such  little  retired 
Dutch  valleys,  found,  here  and  there  em- 
bosomed in  the  great  State  of  New  York, 
that  population,  manners,  and  customs  re- 
main fixed;  while  the  great  torrent  of  migra- 
tion and  improvement,  which  is  making  such 
incessant  changes  in  other  parts  of  this  rest- 
less country,  sweeps  by  them  unobserved. 
They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water 
which  border  a  rapid  stream;  where  we  may 
see  the  straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at 
anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in  their  mimic 
harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the  pass- 
ing current.  Though  many  years  have 
elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I 
should  not  still  find  the  same  trees  and  the 
same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in 
a  remote  period  of  American  history,  that 
is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy 
wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane;  who 
sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  tarried," 
in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  in- 
structing the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He 
was  a  native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which 
supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for  the 
41 


Washington  Irving- 
mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends 
forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woods- 
men and  country  schoolmasters.  The  cog- 
nomen of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to  his 
person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank, 
with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legvs, 
hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves, 
feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels,  and 
his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together. 
His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with 
huge  ears,  large,  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a 
long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a 
weathercock  perched  upon  his  spindle  neck 
to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see 
him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill 
on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging 
and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have 
mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine  de- 
scending upon  the  earth,  or  some  scare- 
crow eloped  from  a  corD field. 

His  schoolhouse  was  a  low  building  cf 
one  large  room,  rudely  constructed  of  logs; 
the  windows  partly  glazed,  and  partly 
patched  with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It 
was  most  ingeniously  secured  at  vacant 
hours  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of 
the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  win- 
dow shutters;  so  that,  though  a  thief  might 
get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some 
embarrassment  in  getting  out:  an  idea  most 
probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost 
Van  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an  eel-pot. 
42 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

The  schoolhouse  stood  in  a  rather  lonely 
but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of 
a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by, 
and  a  formidable  birch-tree  growing  at  one 
end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur  of 
his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  les- 
sons, might  be  heard  on  a  drowsy  summer's 
day,  like  the  hum  of  a  bee-hive;  interrupted 
now  and  then  by  the  authoritative  voice 
of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or 
command;  or,  peradventure,  by  the  appall- 
ing sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged  some 
tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of 
knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  consci- 
entious man,  and  ever  bore  in  mind  the 
golden  maxim,  "  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil 
the  child." — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  cer- 
tainly were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however, 
that  he  was  one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of 
the  school,  who  joy  in  the  smart  of  their 
subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he  administered 
justice  with  discrimination  rather  than  se- 
verity, taking  the  burden  off  the  backs  of 
the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of  the 
strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that 
winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was 
passed  by  with  indulgence;  but  the  claims 
of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double 
portion  on  some  little,  tough,  wrong-headed, 
broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked  and 
swelled  and  grew  clogged  and  sullen  beneath 
43 


Washington   Irving 

the  birch.  All  this  he  called  "  doing  his 
duty  "  by  their  parents;  and  he  never  in- 
flicted a  chastisement  without  following  it 
by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the 
smarting  urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember 
it,  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day  he 
had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even 
the  companion  and  playmate  of  the  larger 
boys;  and  on  holiday  afternoons  would  con- 
voy some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who 
happened  to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good 
housewives  for  mothers,,  noted  for  the  com- 
forts of  the  cupboard.  Indeed  it  behooved 
him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils. 
The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was 
small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  suffi- 
cient to  furnish  him  with  daily  bread,  for  he 
was  a  huge  feeder,  and,  though  lank,  had 
the  dilating  powers  of  an  anaconda;  but  to 
help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  accord- 
ing to  country  custom  in  those  parts,  boarded 
and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers 
whose  children  he  instructed.  With  these 
he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time; 
thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhood, 
with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  up  in  a 
cotton  handkerchief. 

That   all   this   might   not   be   too   onerous 

on  the  purses  of  nis  rustic  patrons,  who  are 

apt    to    consider    the    costs    of    schooling    a 

grievous  burden  and  schoolmasters  as  mere 

44 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

drones,  he  had  various  ways  of  rendering 
himself  both  useful  and  agreeable.  He  as- 
sisted the  farmers  occasionally  in  the  lighter 
labors  of  their  farms;  helped  to  make  hay 
and  mended  the  fences;  took  the  horses  to 
water,  drove  the  cows  from  pasture;  and  cut 
wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside,  too, 
all  the  dominant  dignity  and  absolute  sway 
with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  little  empire, 
the  school,  and  became  wonderfully  gentle 
and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  the  mothers  by  petting  the  children, 
particularly  the  youngest;  and  like  the  lion 
bold,  which  whilom  so  magnanimously  the 
lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a  child 
on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot 
for  whole   hours   together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was 
the  singing-master  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by  instruct- 
ing the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a 
matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him,  on  Sun- 
days, to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the 
church  gallery,  with  a  band  of  chosen  sing- 
ers; where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely 
carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson. 
Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above 
all  the  rest  of  the  congregation;  and  there 
are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in 
that  church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard 
half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning, 
45 


Washington  Irving 


which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by 
divers  little  makeshifts  in  that  ingenious  way 
which  is  commonly  denominated  "  by  hook 
and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on 
tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all 
who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  head- 
work,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of 
some  importance  in  the  female  circle  of  a 
rural  neighborhood;  being  considered  a  kind 
of  idle,  gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly 
superior  taste  and  accomplishments  to  the 
rough  country  swains,  and  indeed,  inferior 
in  learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  ap- 
pearance, therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some 
little  stir  at  the  tea  table  of  a  farmhouse,  and 
the  addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of 
cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  the 
parade  of  a  silver  teapot.  Our  man  of  let- 
ters, therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in  the 
smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he 
would  figure  among  them  in  the  churchyard, 
between  services  on  Sundays! — gathering 
grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines  that 
overrun  the  surrounding  trees;  reciting  for 
their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the 
tombstones;  or  sauntering,  with  a  whole 
bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks  of  the  ad- 
jacent mill-pond;  while  the  more  bashful 
country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back, 
envying  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 
46 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was 
a  kind  of  travelling  gazette,  carrying  the 
whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from  house  to 
house:  so  that  his  appearance  was  always 
greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was,  more- 
over, esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of 
great  erudition,  for  he  had  read  several 
books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect 
master  of  Cotton  Mather's  "  History  of 
New  England  Witchcraft,"  in  which,  by 
the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently  be- 
lieved. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small 
shrewdness  and  simple  credulity.  His  appe- 
tite for  the  marvellous,  and  his  powers  of 
digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordinary;  and 
both  had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in 
this  spellbound  region.  No  tale  was  too 
gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swal- 
low. It  was  often  his  delight,  after  his 
school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to 
stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover 
bordering  the  little  brook  that  whimpered 
by  his  schoolhouse,  and  there  con  over 
old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the  gath- 
ering dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed 
page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then 
as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream, 
and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farmhouse 
where  he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every 
Sound  of  nature,  at  that  bewitching  hour, 
fluttered  his  excited  imagination;  the  moan 
47 


Washington   Irving 

>of  the  whippoorwill  *  from  the  hillside;  the 
boding  cry  of  the  tree  toad,  that  harbinger 
of  storm;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech- 
owl,  or  the  sudden  rustling  in  the  thicket 
of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost.  The 
fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly 
in  the  darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled 
him,  as  one  of  uncommon  brightness  would 
stream  across  his  path;  and  if,  by  chance,  a 
huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 
blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor 
varlet  was  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost,  with 
the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's 
token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions, 
either  to  drown  thought  or  drive  away  evil 
spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm-tunes;  and  the 
.good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by 
their  doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled 
with  awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "  in 
linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  floating 
from  the  distant  hill,  or  along  the  dusky 
road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure 
was,  to  pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the 
old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by 
the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and 
spluttering  along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to 
their  marvellous  tales  of  ghosts  and  gob- 
lins, and  haunted  fields,  and  haunted  brooks, 

*  The  whippoorwill  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night. 
It  receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  re- 
■semble  those  words. 

48 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

and  haunted  bridges,  and  haunted  houses,, 
and  particularly  of  the  headless  horseman, 
or  Galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow,  as  they 
sometimes  called  him.  He  would  delight 
them  equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft, 
and  of  the  direful  omens  and  portentous 
sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut; 
and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  specu- 
lations upon  comets  and  shooting  stars,  and 
with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did 
absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were 
half  the  time  topsy-turvy! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this, 
while  snugly  cuddling  in  the  chimney-corner 
of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow 
.from  the  crackling  wood-fire,  and  where,  of 
course,  no  spectre  dared  to  show  his  face, 
it  was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his 
subsequent  walk  homeward.  What  fearful 
shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path  amidst 
the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night. 
With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every 
trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the 
waste  fields  from  some  distant  window! 
How  often  was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub 
covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted 
spectre,  beset  his  very  path!  How  often 
did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the 
sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust 
beneath  his  feet;  and  dread  to  look  over  his 
shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  un- 
49 


Washington  Irving 

couth  being  tramping  close  behind  him!  — 
and  how  often  was  he  thrown  into  com- 
plete dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling 
among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was 
the  Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly 
scourings! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of 
the  night,  phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk 
in  darkness;  and  though  he  had  seen  many 
spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than 
once  beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his 
lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an 
end  to  all  these  evils;  and  he  would  have 
passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the 
devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not 
been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more 
perplexity  to  mortal  man  than  ghosts,  gob- 
lins, and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  to- 
gether, and  that  was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assem- 
bled, one  evening  in  each  week,  to  receive 
his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was  Katrina 
Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of 
a  substantial  Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a 
blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen;  plump  as  a 
partridge;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked 
as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  uni- 
versally famed,  not  merely  for  her  beauty 
but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a 
little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived 
even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of 
ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited 
50 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the  orna- 
ments of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great- 
great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from 
Saardam;  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the 
olden  time;  and  withal  a  provokingly  short 
petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and 
ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart 
toward  the  sex;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found 
favor  in  his  eyes;  more  especially  after  he 
had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion. 
Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  pic- 
ture of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal- 
hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent 
either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but  within 
those  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and  well- 
conditioned.  He  was  satisfied  with  his 
wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it;  and  piqued  him- 
self upon  the  hearty  abundance  rather  than 
the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold 
was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in 
one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks 
in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of 
nestling.  A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad 
branches  over  it;  at  the  foot  of  which  bub- 
bled up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweet- 
est water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  bar- 
rel; and  then  stole  sparkling  away  through 
the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook,  that  bub- 
bled along  among  alders  and  dwarf  wil- 
51 


Washington  Irving 

lows.  Hard  by  the  farmhouse  was  a  vast 
barn  that  might  have  served  for  a  church; 
every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed 
bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the 
farm;  the  flail  was  busily  resounding  within 
it  from  morning  till  night;  swallows  and 
martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves; 
and  rows  of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye 
turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some 
with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  bur- 
ied in  their  bosoms,  and  others  swelling, 
and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames, 
were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof. 
Sleek  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in 
the  repose  and  abundance  of  their  pens; 
wrhence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troops 
of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A 
stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  rid- 
ing __  an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole 
fleets  of  ducks;  regiments  of  turkeys  were 
gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea 
fowls  fretting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered 
housewives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented 
cry.  Before  the  barn-door  strutted  the  gal- 
lant cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  war- 
rior, and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  bur- 
nished wings,  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and 
gladness  of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up 
the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  generously 
calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and 
children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he 
Tiad  discovered. 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he 
looked  upon  this  sumptuous  promise  of  lux- 
urious winter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's 
eye  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting-pig 
running  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly, 
and  an  apple  in  his  mouth;  the  pigeons  were 
snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and 
tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust;  the  geese 
were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy;  and  the 
ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug 
married  couples,  with  a  decent  competency 
of  onion-sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw 
carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon, 
and  juicy  relishing  ham;  not  a  turkey  but  he 
beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard 
under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  neck- 
lace of  savory  sausages;  and  even  bright 
chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his 
back,  in  a  side-dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as 
if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous 
spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this, 
and  as  he  rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over 
the  fat  meadow-lands,  the  rich  fields  of 
wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian 
corn,  and  the  orchard  burdened  with  ruddy 
fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement 
of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the 
damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains, 
and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea 
how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash, 
and  the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of 
53 


Washington   Irving 

wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilder- 
ness. Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized 
his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the  bloom- 
ing Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children, 
mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with 
household  trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles 
dangling  beneath;  and  he  beheld  himself  be- 
striding a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her 
heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee, 
or  the  Lord  knows  where. 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest 
of  his  heart  was  complete.  It  was  one  of 
those  spacious  farmhouses,  with  high-ridged 
but  lowly  sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style 
handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers; 
the  low  projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza 
along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up 
in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung 
flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry, 
and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river. 
Eenches  were  built  along  the  sides  for  sum- 
mer use;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one 
end,  and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed  the 
various  uses  to  which  this  important  porch 
might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the 
wondering  Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which 
formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion  and  the 
place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  re- 
splendent pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser, 
dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge 
bag  of  wool  ready  to  be  spun;  in  another  a 
quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from  the 
54 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

loom;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of 
dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  fes- 
toons along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud 
of  red  peppers;  and  a  door  left  ajar  gave 
him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the 
claw-footed  chairs  and  dark  mahogany  ta- 
bles shone  like  mirrors;  and  irons,  with  their 
accompanying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened 
from  their  covert  of  asparagus  tops;  mock 
oranges  and  conch  shells  decorated  the  man- 
tel-piece; strings  of  various  colored  birds' 
eggs  were  suspended  above  it,  a  great  os- 
trich egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  a  corner-cupboard,  knowingly 
left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of 
old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes 
upon  these  regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of 
his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only  study 
was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peer- 
less daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enter- 
prise, however,  he  had  more  real  difficul- 
ties than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight- 
errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  anything 
but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and 
such  like  easily  conquered  adversaries,  to 
contend  with;  and  had  to  make  his  way 
merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and 
walls  of  adamant,  to  the  castle-keep,  where 
the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined;  all  which 
he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve 
his  way  to  the  centre  of  a  Christmas  pie; 
55 


Washington  Irving 

and  then  the  lady  gave  him  her  hand  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a 
country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth  of 
whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever  pre- 
senting new  difficulties  and  impediments; 
and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fearful 
adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  nu- 
merous rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every  por- 
tal to  her  heart;  keeping  a  watchful  and 
angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly 
out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new 
competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a 
burly,  roaring,  roistering  blade,  of  the  name 
of  Abraham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch 
abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero 
of  the  country  round,  which  rang  with  his 
feats  of  strength  and  hardihood.  He  was 
broad-shouldered,  and  double-jointed,  with 
short,  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff  but  not 
unpleasant  countenance,  having  a  mingled 
air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his  Hercu- 
lean frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had 
received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by 
which  he  was  universally  known.  He  was 
famed  for  great  knowledge  and  skill  in 
horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horse- 
back as  a  Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at  all 
races  and  cockfights;  and,  with  the  ascend- 
ancy which  bodily  strength  acquires  in  rus- 
tic life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  set- 
5G 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

ting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving  his 
decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admitting 
of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always 
ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic;  but  had 
more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  compo- 
sition; and,  with  all  his  overbearing  rough- 
ness, there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish 
good-humor  at  bottom.  He  had  three  or 
four  boon  companions,  who  regarded  him  as 
their  model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom  he 
scoured  the  country,  attending  every  scene 
of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  round.  In 
cold  weather  he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur 
cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail; 
and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering 
descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance, 
whisking  about  among  a  squad  of  hard  rid- 
ers, they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall. 
Sometimes  his  crew  would  be  heard  dash- 
ing along  past  the  farmhouses  at  midnight, 
with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don 
Cossacks;  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of 
their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till 
the  hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and  then 
exclaim,  "  Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and 
his  gang!  "  The  neighbors  looked  upon  him 
with  a  mixture  of  awe,  admiration,  and  good- 
will, and  when  any  madcap  prank  or  rustic 
brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook 
their  heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This    rantipole    hero    had    for    some    time 


Washington  Irvinj 


singled  out  the  blooming  Katrina  for  the  ob- 
ject of  his  uncouth  gallantries;  and  though 
his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like 
the  gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a 
bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not 
altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it 
is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival  can- 
didates to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to 
cross  a  lion  in  his  amours;  insomuch  that, 
when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's 
paling,  en  a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that 
his  master  was  courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed, 
'*  sparking,"  within,  all  other  suitors  passed 
by  in  despair,  and  carried  the  war  into  other 
Quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom 
Ichabod  Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  consid- 
ering all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition, 
and  a  wiser  man  would  have  despaired. 
He  had,  however,  a  happy  mixture  of  pli- 
ability and  perseverance  in  his  nature;  he 
was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a  supple-jack — 
yielding,  but  tough;  though  he  bent,  he 
never  broke;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath 
the  slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it 
was  away — jerk!  he  was  as  erect,  and  carried 
his  head  as  high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his 

rival  would  have  been  madness;   for  he  was 

not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his  amours,  any 

more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.    Icha- 

58 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

bod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet 
and  gently  insinuating  manner.  Under  cover 
of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he  had 
made  frequent  visits  at  the  farmhouse;  not 
that  he  had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the 
meddlesome  interference  of  parents,  which 
is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of 
lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy,  in- 
dulgent soul;  he  loved  his  daughter  better 
even  than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable 
man  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her  have 
her  way  in  everything.  His  notable  little 
wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to 
her  housekeeping  and  manage  her  poul- 
try; for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks  and 
geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked 
after,  but  girls  can  take  care  of  themselves. 
Thus  while  the  busy  dame  bustled  about 
the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would 
sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at  the  other, 
watching  the  achievements  of  a  little 
wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in 
each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the 
wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the 
mean  time,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit 
with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring 
under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in 
the  twilight — that  hour  so  favorable  to  the 
lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts 
are  wooed  and  won.     To  me  they  have  al- 
59 


Washington   Irving 

ways  been  matters  of  riddle  and  admira- 
tion. Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable 
point,  or  door  of  access,  while  others  have 
a  thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured 
in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  great 
triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a 
still  greater  proof  of  generalship  to  main- 
tain possession  cf  the  latter,  for  the  man 
must  battle  for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and 
window.  He  who  wins  a  thousand  common 
hearts  is  therefore  entitled  to  some  renown; 
but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the 
heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  this  was  not  the  case  with  the 
redoubtable  Brom  Bones;  and  from  the  mo- 
ment Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the 
interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined; 
his  horse  was  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the 
palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud 
gradually  arose  between  him  and  the  precep- 
tor of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry 
in  his  nature,  would  fain  have  carried  mat- 
ters to  open  warfare,  and  have  settled  their 
pretensions  to  the  lady  according  to  the 
mode  of  those  most  concise  and  simple 
reasoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore — by 
single  combat;  but  Ichabod  was  too  con- 
scious of  the  superior  might  of  his  adver- 
sary to  enter  the  lists  against  him;  he 
had  overheard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he 
would  "  double  the  schoolmaster  up,  and  lay 
GO 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

him  on  a  shelf  of  his  own  schoolhouse;  " 
and  he  was  too  wary  to  give  him  oppor- 
tunity. There  was  something  extremely 
provoking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system; 
it  left  Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon 
the  funds  of  rustic  waggery  in  his  disposi- 
tion, and  to  play  off  boorish  practical  jokes 
upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the  object 
of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones  and  his 
gang  of  rough  riders.  They  harried  his 
hitherto  peaceful  domains;  smoked  out  his 
singing  school,  by  stopping  up  the  chim- 
ney; broke  into  the  schoolhouse  at  night, 
in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe 
and  window-stakes,  and  turned  everything 
topsy-turvy;  so  that  the  poor  schoolmaster 
began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the  coun- 
try held  their  meetings  there.  But,  what  was 
still  more  annoying,  Brom  took  opportuni- 
ties of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in  presence 
of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog 
whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  lu- 
dicrous manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival  of 
Ichabod's  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time, 
without  producing  any  material  effect  on  the 
relative  situation  of  the  contending  powers. 
On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod,  in 
pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty 
stool  whence  he  usually  watched  all  the 
concerns  of  his  little  literary  realm.  In  his 
hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of 
Gl 


Washington   Irving 


despotic  power;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed 
on  three  nails,  behind  the  throne,  a  con- 
stant terror  to  evil-doers;  while  on  the 
desk  before  him  might  be  seen  sundry  con- 
traband articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  de- 
tected upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins;  such 
as  half-munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs, 
fly-cages  and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little 
paper  gamecocks.  Apparently  there  had 
been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently 
inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily 
intent  upon  their  books,  or  slyly  whisper- 
ing behind  them  with  one  eye  kept  upon  the 
master;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness 
reigned  throughout  the  schoolroom.  It 
was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  a  negro,  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trousers, 
a  round-crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like 
the  cap  cf  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the 
back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt, 
which  he  managed  with  a  rope  by  way  of 
halter.  He  came  clattering  up  to  the  school 
door  wiLh  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  at- 
tend a  merry-making  or  "  quilting  frolic," 
to  be  held  that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van 
Tassel's;  and  having  delivered  his  message 
with  that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at 
fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  dis- 
play on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he 
dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen  scam- 
pering away  up  the  Hollow,  full  of  the  im- 
portance and  hurry  of  his  mission. 
62 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the 
late  quiet  schoolroom.  The  scholars  were 
hurried  through  their  lessons,  without  stop- 
ping at  trifles;  those  who  were  nimble 
skipped  over  half  with  impunity,  and  those 
who  were  tardy  had  a  smart  application 
now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their 
speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word. 
Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put 
away  on  the  shelves,  inkstands  were  over- 
turned, benches  thrown  down,  and  the 
whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour  be- 
fore the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like  a 
legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing 
about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  eman- 
cipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an 
extra  half  hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and 
furbishing  up  his  best  and  indeed  only  suit 
of  rusty  black  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a 
bit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in 
the  schoolhouse.  That  he  might  make  his 
appearance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true 
style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse  from 
the  farmer  with  whom  he  was  domiciled,  a 
choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of  Hans 
Van  Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly  mounted, 
issued  forth,  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of 
adventures.  But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  ac- 
count of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my 
hero  and  his  steed.  The  animal  he  be- 
63 


Washington  Irving 

strode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse,  that 
had  outlived  almost  everything  but  his  vi- 
ciousness.  He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with 
a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer;  his 
rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and 
knotted  with  burrs;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pu- 
pil, and  was  glaring  and  spectral;  but  the 
other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it. 
Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in 
his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  name 
he  bore  of  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact, 
been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's,  the 
choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious 
rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some 
of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal;  for, 
old  and  broken-down  as  he  looked,  there 
was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him  than 
in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a 
steed.  He  rode  with  short  stirrups,  which 
brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out 
like  grasshoppers';  he  carried  his  whip  per- 
pendicularly in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and, 
as  his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his 
arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair 
of  wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the 
top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of 
forehead  might  be  called;  and  the  skirts  of 
his  black  coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the 
horse's  tail.  Such  was  the  appearance  of 
Ichabod  and  his  steed  as  they  shambled  out 
64 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Holl 


ow 


of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was 
altogether  such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to 
be  met  with   in   broad   daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal 
day.  the  sky  was  clear  and  serene,  and  na- 
ture wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery  which 
we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abun- 
dance. The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober 
brown  and  yellow,  while  some  trees  of  the 
tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts 
into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and 
scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  be- 
gan to  make  their  appearance  high  in  the 
air;  the  bark  of  squirrel  might  be  heard 
from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory  nuts, 
and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  in- 
tervals from  the  neighboring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell 
banquets.  In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry, 
they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking,  from 
bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious 
from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around 
them.  There  was  the  honest  cockrobin,  the 
favorite  game  of  stripling  sportsmen,  with 
its  loud,  querulous  notes;  and  the  twitter- 
ing blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds;  and  the 
golden-winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crim- 
son crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  splen- 
did plumage;  and  the  cedar-bird,  with  its 
red-tipped  wings  and  yellow-tipped  tail,  and 
its  little  montero  cap  of  feathers;  and  the 
blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay, 
65 


Washington   Irving 

light-blue  coat  and  white  imder-clothes, 
screaming  and  chattering,  nodding  and  bob- 
bing and  bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his 
eye,  ever  open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary 
abundance,  ranged  with  delight  over  the 
treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he 
beheld  vast  stores  of  apples;  some  hanging 
in  oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees;  some 
gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the 
market;  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for 
the  cider-press.  Further  on  he  beheld 
great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden 
ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts,  and 
holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty- 
pudding;  and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  be- 
neath them,  turning  up  their  fair  round 
bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  pros- 
pects of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon 
he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields, 
breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as 
he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over 
his  mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered, 
and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the 
delicate  little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van 
Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  "  sugared  suppositions,"  he 
journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills 
which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  grad- 
6(5 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

ually  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the 
west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee 
lay  motionless  and  glossy,  excepting  that 
here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved 
and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  dis- 
tant mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated 
in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move 
them'.  The  horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint, 
changing  gradually  into  a  pure  apple-green, 
and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid- 
heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the 
woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that  overhung 
some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth 
to  the  dark-gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky 
sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  distance, 
dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her 
sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast;  and 
as  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along 
the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel 
was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  ar- 
rived at  the  castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel, 
which  he  found  thronged  with  the  pride  and 
flower  of  the  adjacent  country-  Old  farmers, 
a  spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun 
coats  and  breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge 
shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles. 
Their  brisk  withered  little  dames,  in  close 
crimped  caps,  long-waisted  shortgowns, 
homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pin- 
cushions, and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging 
on  the  outside.  Buxom  lasses,  almost  as 
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Washington   Irving 

antiquated  as  their  mothers,  excepting 
where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps 
a  white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  in- 
novation. The  sons,  in  short,  square-skirted 
coats  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  but- 
tons, and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  especially  if  they  could 
procure  an  eel-skin  for  the  purpose,  it  being 
esteemed,  throughout  the  country,  as  a  po- 
tent nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Broni  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the 
scene,  having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his 
favorite  steed,  Daredevil,  a  creature,  like 
himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and 
which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage. 
He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious 
animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which 
kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck, 
for  he  held  a  tractable,  well-broken  horse  as 
unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the 
world  of  charms  that  burst  upon  the  en- 
raptured gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  entered 
the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion. 
Not  those  of  the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with 
their  luxurious  display  of  red  and  white;  but 
the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  coun- 
try tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  au- 
tumn. Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of 
various  and  almost  indescribable  kinds, 
known  only  to  experienced  Dutch  house- 
wives! There  was  the  doughty  doughnut, 
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The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

the  tenderer  oly-koek,  and  the  crisp  and 
crumbling  cruller;  sweet  cakes  and  short 
cakes,  ginger-cakes  and  honey-cakes,  and 
the  whole  family  cf  cakes.  And  then  there 
were  apple-pies  and  peach-pies  and  pump- 
kin-pies; besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked 
beef;  and,  moreover,  delectable  dishes  of  pre- 
served plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and 
quinces;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and 
roasted  chickens;  together  with  bowls  of 
milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated 
them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending  up 
its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven 
bless  the  mark!  I  want  breath  and  time 
to  discuss  this  banquet  as  it  deserves,  and 
am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my  story.  Hap- 
pily, Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a 
hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice 
to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature, 
whose  heart  dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin 
was  filled  with  good  cheer;  and  whose  spirits 
rose  with  eating  as  some  men's  do  with 
drink.  He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his 
large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and  chuck- 
ling with  the  possibility  that  he  might  one 
day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene  of  almost  un- 
imaginable luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he 
thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon 
the  old  school-house;  snap  his  fingers  in  the 
face  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other 
GO 


Washington   Irving 

niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any  itinerant 
pedagogue  out-of-doors  that  should  dare  to 
call  him  comrade! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about 
among  his  guests  with  a  face  dilated  with 
content  and  good-humor,  round  and  jolly  as 
the  harvest-moon.  His  hospitable  attentions 
were  brief,  but  expressive,  being  confined  to 
a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a 
loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "  fall 
to,  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the 
common  room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the 
dance.  The  musician  was  an  old  gray-headed 
negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra 
of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a 
century.  His  instrument  was  as  old  and  bat- 
tered as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the 
time  he  scraped  on  two  or  three  strings,  ac- 
companying every  movement  of  the  bow  with 
a  motion  of  the  head  ;  bowing  almost  to  the 
ground  and  stamping  with  his  foot  when- 
ever a  fresh  couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing 
as  much  as  upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a 
limb,  not  a  fibre  about  him  was  idle  ;  and 
to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full 
motion,  and  clattering  about  the  room,  you 
would  have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself, 
that  blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figur- 
ing before  you  in  person.  He  was  the  ad- 
miration of  all  the  negroes  ;  who,  having 
~0 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the 
farm  and  the  neighborhood,  stood  forming 
a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every 
door  and  window,  gazing  with  delight  at  the 
scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs,  and 
showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to 
ear.  How  could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be 
otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous  ?  the 
lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the 
dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in  reply  to  all 
his  amorous  oglings  ;  while  Brom  Bones, 
sorely  smitten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat 
brooding  by  himself  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod 
was  attracted  to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks, 
who,  with  old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at 
one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former 
times,  and  drawing  out  long  stories  about 
the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  was  one  of  those  highly  fa- 
vored places  which  abound  with  chronicle 
and  great  men.  The  British  and  American 
line  had  run  near  it  during  the  war;  it  had, 
therefore,  been  the  scene  of  marauding,  and 
infested  with  refugees,  cowboys,  and  all 
kinds  of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient 
time  had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller 
to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a  little  becoming 
fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinctness  of  his  rec- 
ollection, to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every 
exploit. 

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Washington   Irving 


There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a 
large  blue-bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  near- 
ly taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old  iron 
nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only 
that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge. 
And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall 
be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to 
be  lightly  mentioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of 
Whiteplains,  being  an  excellent  master  of 
defence,  parried  a  musket-ball  with  a  small 
sword,  insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it 
whiz  around  the  blade,  and  glance  off  at  the 
hilt  ;  in  proof  of  which  he  was  ready  at  any 
time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little 
bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had 
been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of 
whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  con- 
siderable hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a 
happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of 
ghosts  and  apparitions  that  succeeded.  The 
neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary  treasures 
of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions 
thrive  best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled 
retreats;  but  are  trampled  underfoot  by  the 
shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population 
of  most  of  our  country  places.  Besides, 
there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts  in 
most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely 
had  time  to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn 
themselves  in  their  graves  before  their  sur- 
viving friends  have  travelled  away  from  the 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

neighborhood;  so  that  when  they  turn  out 
at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have 
no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is 
perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear 
of  ghosts,  except  in  our  long-established 
Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the 
prevalence  of  supernatural  stories  in  these 
parts  was  doubtless  owing  to  the  vicinity 
of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in 
the  very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted 
region;  it  breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of 
dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the  land. 
Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people  were 
present  at  Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were 
doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends. 
Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral 
trains,  and  mouring  cries  and  wailings 
heard  and  seen  about  the  great  tree  where 
the  unfortunate  Major  Andre  was  taken,  and 
which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some 
mention  was  made  also  of  the  woman  in 
white,  that  haunted  the  dark  glen  at  Raven 
Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on 
winter  nights  before  a  storm,  having  per- 
ished there  in  the  snow.  The  chief  part  of 
the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the  favor- 
ite spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless 
horseman,  who  had  been  heard  several  times 
of  late,  patrolling  the  country;  and,  it  was 
said,  tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the 
graves  in  the  churchyard. 
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Washington   Irving 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church 
seems  always  to  have  made  it  a  favorite 
haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a 
knoll,  surrounded  by  locust  trees  and  lofty 
elms,  from  among  which  its  decent  white- 
washed walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like 
Christian  purity  beaming  through  the  shades 
of  retirement.  A  gentle  slope  descends  from 
it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by 
high  trees,  between  which  peeps  may  be 
caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To 
look  upon  its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the 
sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one 
would  think  that  there  at  least  the  dead 
might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the 
church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell,  along 
which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken 
rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a 
deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from 
the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden 
bridge;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the 
bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  over- 
hanging trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it, 
even  in  the  daytime,  but  occasioned  a  fear- 
ful darkness  at  night.  This  was  one  of  the 
favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman; 
and  the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently 
encountered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brou- 
wer,  a  most  heretical  disbeliever  in  ghosts, 
how  he  met  the  horseman  returning  from 
his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was 
obliged  to  get  up  behind  him;  how  they 
7^ 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  hill  and 
swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge;  when 
the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skele- 
ton, threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and 
sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap 
of   thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a 
thrice  marvellous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones, 
who  made  light  of  the  galloping  Hessian  as 
an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed  that,  on  re- 
turning one  night  from  the  neighboring 
village  of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  offered  to  race 
wTith  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should 
have  won  it  too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  gob- 
lin horse  all  hollow,  but,  just  as  they  came 
to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted, 
and  vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  un- 
dertone with  which  men  talk  in  the  dark, 
the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only  now 
and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the 
glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of 
Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large 
extracts  from  his  invaluable  author,  Cot- 
ton Mather,  and  added  many  marvellous 
events  which  had  taken  place  in  his  native 
State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights 
which  he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks 
about  the  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The 
old  farmers  gathered  together  their  families 
in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some 
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Washington   Irving 


time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and 
over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  dam- 
sels mounted  on  pillions  behind  their  favor- 
ite swains,  and  their  light-hearted  laugh- 
ter, mingling  with  the  clatter  of  hoofs, 
echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding 
fainter  and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died 
away — and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic 
was  all  silent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only 
lingered  behind,  according  to  the  custom  of 
country  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  with  the 
heiress,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on 
the  high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at 
this  interview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for 
in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Something,  however, 
I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  he 
certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great 
interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and 
chopf alien. — Oh,  these  women!  these  wom- 
en! Could  that  girl  have  been  playing  off 
any  of  her  coquettish  tricks? — Was  her  en- 
couragement of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a 
mere  sham  to  secure  conquest  of  his  rival? — 
Heaven  only  knows,  not  I! — Let  it  suffice  to 
say,  Ichabod  stole  forth  with  the  air  of 
one  who  had  been  racking  a  hen-roost,  rather 
than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking 
to  the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of 
rural  wealth  on  which  he  had  so  often 
gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and 
with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused 
his  steed  most  uncourteously  from  the  com- 
76 


The   Legend  of  Sleepy  Holl 


ow 


fortabie  quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly 
sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and 
oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and 
clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night 
that  Ichabod,  heavy-hearted  and  crestfallen, 
pursued  his  travels  homewards,  along  tne 
sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above 
Tarry  Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so 
cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as 
dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him,  the  Tap- 
pan  Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  indistinct 
waste  of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall 
mast  of  a  sloop  riding  quietly  at  anchor 
under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  mid- 
night he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the 
watch-dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
Hudson;  but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint  as 
only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  then, 
too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  ac- 
cidentally awakened,  would  sound  far,  far 
off,  from  some  farmhouse  away  among  the 
hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in 
his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him, 
but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a 
cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of  a 
bull-frog,  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if 
sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  sud- 
denly in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that 
be   had   heard   in   the   afternoon,   now   came 


Washington   Irving 

crowding  upon  his  recollection.  The  night 
grew  darker  and  darker;  the  stars  seemed  to 
sink  deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds 
occasionally  hid  them  from  his  sight.  He 
had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He 
was,  moreover,  approaching  the  very  place 
where  many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost  sto- 
ries had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the 
road  stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which 
towered  like  a  giant  above  all  the  other 
trees  of  the  neighborhood  and  formed  a 
kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled 
and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks 
for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost  to 
the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the  air.  It 
was  connected  with  the  tragical  story  of  the 
unfortunate  Andre,  who  had  been  taken 
prisoner  hard  by;  and  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree. 
The  common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mix- 
ture of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out 
of  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred 
namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of 
strange  sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told 
concerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree, 
he  began  to  whistle:  he  thought  his  whistle 
was  answered, — it  was  but  a  blast  sweeping 
sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he 
approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he 
saw  something  white,  hanging  in  the  midst 
of  the  tree, — he  paused  and  ceased  whis- 
7S 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

tling;  but  on  looking  more  narrowly,  per- 
ceived that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree 
had  been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the 
white  wood  laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard 
a  groan, — his  teeth  chattered  and  his  knees 
smote  against  the  saddle:  it  was  but  the 
rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as 
they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He 
passed  the  tree  in  safety;  but  new  perils  lay 
before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a 
small  brook  crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into 
a  marshy  and  thickly  wooded  glen,  known 
by  the  name  of  Wiley's  swamp.  A  few 
rough  logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a 
bridge  over  this  stream.  On  that  side  of  the 
road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a 
group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick 
with  wild  grape-vines,  threw  a  cavernous 
gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the 
severest  trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot 
that  the  unfortunate  Andre  was  captured, 
and  under  the  covert  of  those  chestnuts  and 
vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed 
who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been 
considered  a  haunted  stream,  and  fearful 
are  the  feelings  of  the  school-boy  who  has 
to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As   he   approached    the    stream,    his   heart 

began  to  thump;  he  summoned  up,  however, 

all    his    resolution,    gave    his    horse    half    a 

score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to 

79 


Washington   Irving 

dash  briskly  across  the  bridge;  but  instead 
of  starting  forward,  the  perverse  old  animal 
made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broad- 
side against  the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears 
increased  with  the  delay,  jerked  the  reins 
on  the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily  with 
the  contrary  foot:  it  was  all  in  vain;  his 
steed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to 
plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  into 
a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder  bushes.  The 
schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip  and 
heel  upon  the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpow- 
der, who  dashed  forward,  snuffling  and  snort- 
ing, but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge, 
with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his 
rider  sprawling  over  his  head.  Just  at  this 
moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the 
bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod. 
In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the 
margin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something 
huge,  misshapen,  black  and  towering.  It 
stirred  not,  but  seemed  gathered  up  in  the 
gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to 
spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose 
upon  his  head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be 
done?  To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too  late; 
and,  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  es- 
caping ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which 
could  ride  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind? 
Summoning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  cour- 
age, he  demanded  in  stammering  accents — - 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

"Who  are  you?"  He  received  no  reply.  He 
repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more  agitated 
voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Once 
more  he  cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible 
Gunpowder,  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  broke 
forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm- 
tune.  Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm 
put  itself  into  motion,  and,  with  a  scramble 
and  a  bound,  stood  at  once  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark 
and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown 
might  now  in  some  degree  be  ascertained. 
He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  di- 
mensions, and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of 
powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  mol- 
estation or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on 
one  side  of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the 
blind  side  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now 
got  over  his  fright  and  waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange 
midnight  companion,  and  bethought  himself 
of  the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones  with  the  Gal- 
loping Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in 
hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger, 
however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal 
pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a 
walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind, — the  other  did 
the  same.  His  heart  began  to  sink  within 
him;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his  psalm- 
tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not  utter 
a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the  moody 
81 


Washington   Irving 

and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious  com- 
panion that  was  mysterious  and  appalling. 
It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On 
mounting  a  rising  ground,  which  brought 
the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief 
against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muf- 
fled in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror-struck 
on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless! — but  his 
horror  was  still  more  increased,  on  observ- 
ing that  the  head,  which  should  have  rested 
on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him  on 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle:  his  terror  rose  to 
desperation;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks 
and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by 
a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his  companion 
the  slip, — but  the  spectre  started  full  jump 
with  him.  Away  then  they  dashed,  through 
thick  and  thin  ;  stones  flying,  and  sparks 
flashing  at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy 
garments  fluttered  in  the  air,  as  he  stretched 
his  long,  lank  body  away  over  his  horse's 
head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which 
turns  off  to  Sleepy  Hollow;  but  Gunpowder, 
who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon,  instead 
of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and 
plunged  headlong  down  hill  to  the  left.  This 
road  leads  through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded 
by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where 
it  crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story, 
and  just  beyond  swells  the  green  knoll  on 
which  stands  the  whitewashed  church. 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his 
unskilful  rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the 
chase  ;  but  just  as  he  had  got  half  way 
through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle 
gave  way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under 
tiim.  He  seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  en- 
deavored to  hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain  ;  and 
had  just  time  to  save  himself  by  clasping 
old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when  the 
saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it 
trampled  under  foot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a 
moment  the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's 
wrath  passed  across  his  mind — for  it  was 
his  Sunday  saddle  ;  but  this  was  no  time 
for  petty  fears  ;  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his 
haunches;  and  (unskilful  rider  that  he  was!) 
he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat; 
sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes 
on  another,  and  sometimes  jolted  on  the 
high  ridge  of  his  horse's  backbone,  with  a 
violence  that  he  verily  feared  would  cleave 
him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him 
with  the  hopes  that  the  church-bridge  was 
at  hand.  The  wavering  reflection  of  a  silver 
star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that 
he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of 
the  church  dimly  glaring  under  the  trees  be- 
yond. He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom 
Bones's  ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared. 
"  If  I  can  but  reach  that  bridge,"  thought 
Ichabod,  "  I  am  safe."    Just  then  he   heard 


Washington   Irving 

the  black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close 
behind  him;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt 
his  hot  breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in 
the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprang  upon 
the  bridge;  he  thundered  over  the  resound- 
ing planks;  he  gained  the  opposite  side; 
and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see 
if  his  pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to 
rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just 
then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his  stirrups, 
and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at 
him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the  hor- 
rible missile,  but  too  late.  It  encountered  his 
cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash,  he  was 
tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gun- 
powder, the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider, 
passed  by  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found 
without  his  saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  un- 
der his  feet,  soberly  cropping  the  grass  at  his 
master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his  ap- 
pearance at  breakfast;  dinner  hour  came, 
but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  assembled  at  the 
schoolhouse,  and  strolled  idly  about  the 
banks  of  the  brook,  but  no  schoolmaster. 
Hans  Van  Ripper  now  began  to  feel  some 
uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Ichabod, 
and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot, 
and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came 
upon  his  traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road 
leading  to  the  church  was  found  the  saddle 
trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks  of  horses' 
84 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy   Hollow 

hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evi- 
dently at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the 
bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad 
part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep 
and  black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shat- 
tered pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of 
the  schoolmaster  was  not  to  be  discovered- 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of  his  estate., 
examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his 
worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts 
and  a  half;  two  stocks  for  the  neck;  a  pair 
or  two  of  worsted  stockings,  an  old  pair  of 
corduroy  small-clothes;  a  rusty  razor;  a 
book  of  psalm-tunes,  full  of  dogs'  ears,  and 
a  broken  pitchpipe.  As  to  the  books  and 
furniture  of  the  schoolhouse,  they  belonged 
to  the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Math- 
er's "  History  of  Witchcraft,"  a  "  New  Eng- 
land Almanac,"  and  a  book  of  dreams  and 
fortune-telling;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of 
foolscap  much  scribbled  and  blotted  in  sev- 
eral fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of 
verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tas- 
sel. These  magic  books  and  the  poetic 
scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the 
flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper;  who  from  that 
time  forward  determined  to  send  his  chil- 
dren no  more  to  school;  observing,  that  he 
never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same 
reading  and  writing.  Whatever  money  the 
85 


Washington   Irving; 

schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had  received 
his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he 
must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time 
of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  specu- 
lation at  the  church  on  the  following  Sun- 
day. Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips  were  col- 
lected in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and 
at  the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had 
been  found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of 
Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others,  were 
called  to  mind;  and  when  they  had  diligent- 
ly considered  them  all,  and  compared  them 
with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they 
shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by 
the  Galloping  Hessian.  As  he  was  a  bache- 
lor, and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled 
his  head  any  more  about  him.  The  school 
was  removed  to  a  different  quarter  of  the 
Hollow,  and  another  pedagogue  reigned  in 
his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been 
down  to  New  York  on  a  visit  several  years 
after,  and  from  whom  this  account  of  the 
ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought 
home  the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane 
was  still  alive;  that  he  had  left  the  neigh- 
borhood, partly  through  fear  of  the  goblins 
and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortifi- 
cation at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by 
the  heiress;  that  he  had  changed  his  quar- 
8G 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

ters  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country;  had 
kept  school  and  studied  law  at  the  same 
time,  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  turned 
politician,  electioneered,  written  for  the 
newspapers,  and  finally  had  been  made  a 
justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones, 
too,  who  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappear- 
ance conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  tri- 
umph to  the  altar,  was  observed  to  look  ex- 
ceeding knowing  whenever  the  story  of 
Ichabod  was  related,  and  always  burst  into 
a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of  the  pump- 
kin; which  led  some  to  suspect  that  he  knew 
more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 
The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are 
best  judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to 
this  day  that  Ichabod  was  spirited  away 
b>  supernatural  means;  and  it  is  a  favorite 
story  often  told  about  the  neighborhood 
round  the  winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge 
became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  super- 
stitious awe,  and  that  may  be  the  reason 
why  the  road  has  been  altered  of  late  years, 
so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border 
of  the  mill-pond.  The  schoolhouse,  being 
deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and  was  report- 
ed to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfor- 
tunate pedagogue;  and  the  ploughboy,  loit- 
ering homeward  of  a  still  summer  evening, 
tias  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance, 
chanting  a  melancholy  psalm-tune  among 
the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
87 


Washington   Irving 


POSTSCRIPT. 

FOUND  IN   THE   HANDWRITING   OF   MR. 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

The  preceding  tale  is  given,  almost  in  the 
precise  words  in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a 
corporation  meeting  of  the  ancient  city  of 
Manhattoes,  at  which  were  present  many  of 
its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers. 
The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gen- 
tlemanly old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt 
clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face;  and 
one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor 
— he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertaining. 
When  his  story  was  concluded,  there  was 
much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly 
from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who 
had  been  asleep  the  greater  part  of  the  time. 
There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows,  who 
maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face 
throughout;  now  and  then  folding  his  arms, 
inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon 
the  floor,  as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his 
mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who 
never  laugh,  but  on  good  grounds — when  they 
have  reason  and  the  law  on  their  side. 
When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company 
had  subsided  and  silence  was  restored,  he 
leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair, 
and    sticking    the    other    akimbo,    demanded, 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of 
the  head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what 
was  the  moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it  went 
to  prove? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a 
glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  as  a  refreshment 
after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked 
at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  def- 
erence, and,  lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the 
table,  observed,  that  the  story  was  intended 
most  logically  to  prove: 

"  That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has 
its  advantages  and  pleasures — provided  we 
will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it: 

'•  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with 
goblin  troopers  is  likely  to  have  rough  riding 
of  it. 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  re- 
fused the  hand  of  a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  cer- 
tain step  to  high  preferment  in  the  state," 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows 
tenfold  closer  after  this  explanation,  being 
sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the  syl- 
logism; while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper- 
and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a  tri- 
umphant leer.  At  length  he  observed,  that 
all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought 
the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant — 
there  was  one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had 
his  doubts.  "  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story- 
teller, "  as  to  that  matter,  I  don't  believe  one 
half  of  it  myself."  D.  K. 

89 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 


91 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 


A  few  miles  from  Boston  in  Massachu- 
setts, there  is  a  deep  inlet,  winding 
several  miles  into  the  interior  of  the 
country  from  Charles  Bay,  and  terminat- 
ing in  a  thickly  wooded  swamp  or  morass. 
On  one  side  of  this  inlet  is  a  beauti- 
ful dark  grove;  on  the  opposite  the  land 
rises  abruptly  from  the  water's  edge  into 
a  high  ridge,  on  which  grow  a  few  scattered 
oaks  of  great  age  and  immense  size.  Under 
one  of  these  gigantic  trees,  according  to  old 
stories,  there  was  a  great  amount  of  treasure 
buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate.  The  inlet  allowed 
a  facility  to  bring  the  money  in  a  boat  se- 
cretly and  at  night  to  the  very  foot  of  the 
hill;  the  elevation  of  the  place  permitted  a 
good  lookout  to  be  kept  that  no  one  was  at 
hand;  while  the  remarkable  trees  formed 
good  landmarks  by  which  the  place  might 
easily  be  found  again.  The  old  stories  add, 
moreover,  that  the  devil  presided  at  the  hid- 
ing of  the  money,  and  took  it  under  his  guar- 
dianship; but  this,  it  is  well  known,  he  al- 
ways does  with  buried  treasure,  particularly 
93 


Washington  Irving 

when  it  has  been  ill-gotten.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  Kidd  never  returned  to  recover  his 
wealth;  being  shortly  after  seized  at  Boston, 
sent  out  to  England,  and  there  hanged  for  a 
pirate. 

About  the  year  1727,  just  at  the  time  that 
earthquakes  were  prevalent  in  New  England, 
and  shook  many  tall  sinners  down  upon 
their  knees,  there  lived  near  this  place  a 
meagre,  miserly  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Tom 
Walker.  He  had  a  wife  as  miserly  as  him- 
self: they  were  so  miserly  that  they  even 
conspired  to  cheat  each  other.  Whatever  the 
woman  could  lay  hands  on,  she  hid  away;  a 
hen  could  not  cackle  but  she  was  on  the  alert 
to  secure  the  new-laid  egg.  Her  husband  was 
continually  prying  about  to  detect  her  secret 
hoards,  and  many  and  fierce  were  the  con- 
flicts that  took  place  about  what  ought  to 
have  been  common  property.  They  lived  in 
a  forlorn-looking  house  that  stood  alone, 
and  had  an  air  of  starvation.  A  few  strag- 
gling savin-trees,  emblems  of  sterility,  grew 
near  it;  no  smoke  ever  curled  from  its 
chimney;  no  traveller  stopped  at  its  door.  A 
miserable  horse,  whose  ribs  were  as  articu- 
late as  the  bars  of  a  gridiron,  stalked  about 
a  field,  where  a  thin  carpet  of  moss,  scarcely 
covering  the  ragged  beds  of  pudding-stone, 
tantalized  and  balked  his  hunger;  and  some- 
times he  would  lean  his  head  over  the  fence, 
.look  piteously  at  the  passer-by,  and  seem  to 
94 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

petition  deliverance  from  this  land  of  fam- 
ine. 

The  house  and  its  inmates  had  altogether 
a  bad  name.  Tom's  wife  was  a  tall  terma- 
gant, fierce  of  temper,  loud  of  tongue,  and 
strong  of  arm.  Her  voice  was  often  heard  in 
wordy  warfare  with  her  husband;  and  his 
face  sometimes  showed  signs  that  their  con- 
flicts were  not  confined  to  words.  No  one 
ventured,  however,  to  interfere  between 
them.  The  lonely  wayfarer  shrunk  within 
himself  at  the  horrid  clamor  and  clapper- 
clawing; eyed  the  den  of  discord  askance; 
and  hurried  on  his  way,  rejoicing,  if  a  bach- 
elor, in  his  celibacy. 

One  day  that  Tom  Walker  had  been  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  neighborhood,  he  took 
what  he  considered  a  short  cut  homeward, 
through  the  swamp.  Like  most  short  cuts,  it 
was  an  ill-chosen  route.  The  swamp  was 
thickly  grown  with  great  gloomy  pines  and 
hemlocks,  some  of  them  ninety  feet  high, 
which  made  it  dark  at  noonday,  and  a  re- 
treat for  all  the  owls  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  was  full  of  pits  and  quagmires,  partly 
covered  with  weeds  and  mosses,  where  the 
green  surface  often  betrayed  the  traveller 
into  a  gulf  of  black,  smothering  mud:  there 
were  also  dark  and  stagnant  pools,  the 
abodes  of  the  tadpole,  the  bull-frog,  and 
the  water-snake;  where  the  trunks  of 
pines  and  hemlocks  lay  half-drowned,  half- 
95 


Washington  Irving 

rotting,  looking  like  alligators  sleeping  in 
the  mire. 

Tom  had  long  been  picking  his  way  cau- 
tiously through  this  treacherous  forest; 
stepping  from  tuft  to  tuft  of  rushes  and 
roots,  which  afforded  precarious  footholds 
among  deep  sloughs;  or  pacing  carefully, 
like  a  cat,  along  the  prostrate  trunks  of 
trees;  startled  now  and  then  by  the  sudden 
screaming  of  the  bittern,  or  the  quacking  of 
a  wild  duck  rising  on  the  wing  from  some 
solitary  pool.  At  length  he  arrived  at  a  firm 
piece  of  ground,  which  ran  out  like  a  penin- 
sula into  the  deep  bosom  of  the  swamp.  It 
had  been  one  of  the  strongholds  of  the  In- 
dians during  their  wars  with  the  first  colo- 
nists. Here  they  had  thrown  up  a  kind  of 
fort,  which  they  had  looked  upon  as  almost 
impregnable,  and  had  used  as  a  place  of 
refuge  for  their  squaws  and  children.  Noth- 
ing remained  of  the  old  Indian  fort  but  a 
few  embankments,  gradually  sinking  to  the 
level  of  the  surrounding  earth,  and  already 
overgrown  in  part  by  oaks  and  other  forest 
trees,  the  foliage  of  which  formed  a  contrast 
to  the  dark  pines  and  hemlocks  of  the 
swamp. 

It  was  late  in  the  dusk  of  evening  when 
Tom  Walker  reached  the  old  fort,  and  he 
paused  there  awhile  to  rest  himself.  Any 
one  but  he  would  have  felt  unwilling  to  lin- 
ger in  this  lonely,  melancholy  place,  for  the 
96 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

common  people  had  a  bad  opinion  of  it,  from 
the  stories  handed  down  from  the  time  of 
the  Indian  wars;  when  it  was  asserted  that 
the  savages  held  incantations  here,  and  made 
sacrifices  to  the  evil  spirit. 

Tom  Walker,  however,  was  not  a  man  to 
be  troubled  with  any  fears  of  the  kind.  He 
reposed  himself  for  some  time  on  the  trunk 
of  a  fallen  hemlock,  listening  to  the  boding 
cry  of  the  tree-toad,  and  delving  with  his 
walking-staff  into  a  mound  of  black  mould 
at  his  feet.  As  he  turned  up  the  soil  uncon- 
sciously, his  staff  struck  against  something 
hard.  He  raked  it  out  of  the  vegetable 
mould,  and  lo!  a  cloven  skull,  with  an  In- 
dian tomahawk  buried  deep  in  it,  lay  before 
him.  The  rust  on  the  weapon  showed  the 
time  that  had  elapsed  since  this  death-blow 
had  been  given.  It  was  a  dreary  memento  of 
the  fierce  struggle  that  had  taken  place  in 
this  last  foothold  of  the  Indian  warriors. 

"  Humph!  "  said  Tom  Walker,  as  he  gave 
it  a  kick  to  shake  the  dirt  from  it. 

"  Let  that  skull  alone!  "  said  a  gruff  voice. 
Tom  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  beheld  a  great 
black  man  seated  directly  opposite  him,  on 
the  stump  of  a  tree.  He  was  exceedingly 
surprised,  having  neither  heard  nor  seen 
any  one  approach;  and  he  was  still  more 
perplexed  on  observing,  as  well  as  the  gath- 
ering, gloom  would  permit,  that  the  stranger 
was  neither  negro  nor  Indian.  It  is  true  he 
97 


Washington   Irving 

was  dressed  in  a  rude,  half  Indian  garb,  and 
had  a  red  belt  or  sash  swathed  round  his 
body;  but  his  face  was  neither  black  nor 
copper-color,  but  swarthy  and  dingy,  and 
begrimed  with  soot,  as  if  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  toil  among  fires  and  forges.  He 
had  a  shock  of  coarse  black  hair,  that  stood 
out  from  his  head  in  all  directions;  and  bore 
an  axe  on  his  shoulder. 

He  scowled  for  a  moment  at  Tom  with  a 
pair  of  great  red  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  doing  on  my  grounds?  " 
said  the  black  man,  with  a  hoarse,  growling 
voice. 

"Your  grounds!  "  said  Tom  with  a  sneer, 
"  no  more  your  grounds  than  mine;  they  be- 
long to  Deacon  Peabody." 

"  Deacon    Peabody    be    d d,"    said     the 

stranger,  "as  I  flatter  myself  he  will- be,  if 
he  does  not  look  more  to  his  own  sins  and 
less  tc  those  of  his  neighbors.  Look  yonder, 
and  see  how  Deacon  Peabody  is  faring." 

Tom  looked  in  the  direction  that  the 
stranger  pointed,  and  beheld  one  of  the  great 
trees,  fair  and  flourishing  without,  but  rot- 
ten at  the  core,  and  saw  that  it  had  been 
nearly  hewn  through,  so  that  the  first  high 
wind  was  likely  to  blow  it  down.  On  the 
bark  of  the  tree  was  scored  the  name  of 
Deacon  Peabody,  an  eminent  man,  who  had 
waxed  wealthy  by  driving  shrewd  bargains 
with  the  Indians,  He  now  looked  around, 
93 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

and  found  most  of  the  tall  trees  marked 
with  the  name  of  some  great  man  of  the  col- 
ony, and  all  more  or  less  scored  by  the  axe. 
The  one  on  which  he  had  been  seated,  and 
which  had  evidently  just  been  hewn  down, 
bore  the  name  of  Crowninshield;  and  he  rec- 
ollected a  mighty  rich  man  of  that  name, 
who  made  a  vulgar  display  of  wealth,  which 
it  was  whispered  he  had  acquired  by  bucca- 
neering. 

"  He's  just  ready  for  burning!  "  said  the 
black  man,  with  a  growl  of  triumph.  "  You 
see  I  am  likely  to  have  a  good  stock  of  fire- 
wood for  winter." 

"  But  what  right  have  you,"  said  Tom,  "  to 
cut  down  Deacon  Peabody's  timber?  " 

"  The  right  of  a  prior  claim,"  said  the 
other.  "  This  woodland  belonged  to  me  long 
before  one  of  your  white-faced  race  put  foot 
upon  the  soil." 

"And  pray,  who  are  you,  if  I  may  be  so 
bold?  "  said  Tom. 

"Oh,  I  go  by  various  names.  I  am  the 
wild  huntsman  in  some  countries;  the  black 
miner  in  others.  In  this  neighborhood  I 
am  known  by  the  name  of  the  black  woods- 
man. I  am  he  to  whom  the  red  men  conse- 
crated this  spot,  and  in  honor  of  whom 
they  now  and  then  roasted  a  white  man,  by 
way  of  sweet-smelling  sacrifice.  Since  the 
red  men  have  been  exterminated  by  you 
white  savages,  I  amuse  myself  by  presiding 
99 


Washington   Irving 

at  the  persecutions  of  Quakers  and  Ana- 
baptists! I  am  the  great  patron  and  prompter 
of  slave-dealers,  and  the  grand-master  of  the 
Salem  witches." 

"  The  upshot  of  all  which  is,  that,  if  I 
mistake  not,"  said  Tom,  sturdily,  "you  are 
he  commonly  called  Old  Scratch," 

"  The  same,  at  your  service!  "  replied  the 
black  man,  with  a  half  civil  nod. 

Such  was  the  opening  of  this  interview, 
according  to  the  old  story;  though  it  has 
almost  too  familiar  an  air  to  be  credited. 
One  would  think  that  to  meet  with  such 
a  singular  personage,  in  this  wild,  lonely 
place,  would  have  shaken  any  man's  nerves; 
but  Tom  was  a  hard-minded  fellow,  not 
easily  daunted,  and  he  had  lived  so  long 
with  a  termagant  wife,  that  he  did  not  even 
fear  the  devil. 

It  is  said  that  after  this  commencement 
they  had  a  long  and  earnest  conversation  to- 
gether, as  Tom  returned  homeward.  The 
black  man  told  him  of  great  sums  of  money 
buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate,  under  the  oak- 
trees  on  the  high  ridge,  not  far  from  the 
morass.  All  these  were  under  his  com- 
mand, and  protected  by  his  power,  so  that 
none  could  find  them  but  such  as  propitiated 
his  favor.  These  he  offered  to  place  within 
Tom  Walker's  reach,  having  conceived  an 
especial  kindness  for  him;  but  they  were  to 
be  had  only  on  certain  conditions.  What 
100 


The  Devil  and  Tom   Walker 

these  conditions  were  may  be  easily  sur- 
mised, though  Tom  never  disclosed  them 
publicly.  They  must  have  been  very  hard, 
for  he  required  time  to  think  of  them,  and 
he  was  not  a  man  to  3tick  at  trifles  when 
money  was  in  view.  When  they  had  reached 
the  edge  of  the  swamp,  the  stranger  paused. 
"  What  proof  have  I  that  all  you  have  been 
telling  me  is  true?  "  said  Tom.  "  There's 
my  signature,"  said  the  black  man,  pressing 
his  finger  on  Tom's  forehead.  So  saying,  he 
turned  off  among  the  thickets  of  the  swamp, 
and  seemed,  as  Tom  said,  to  go  down,  down, 
down,  into  the  earth,  until  nothing  but  his 
head  and  shoulders  could  be  seen,  and  so  on, 
until  he  totally  disappeared. 

When  Tom  reached  home,  he  found  the 
black  print  of  a  finger  burnt,  as  it  were,  into 
his  forehead,  which  nothing  could  obliterate. 

The  first  news  his  wife  had  to  tell  him  was 
the  sudden  death  of  Absalom  Crownin- 
shield,  the  rich  buccaneer.  It  was  announced 
in  the  papers  with  the  usual  flourish,  that 
"  A  great  man  had  fallen  in  Israel." 

Tom  recollected  the  tree  which  his  black 
friend  had  just  hewn  down,  and  which  was 
ready  for  burning.  "  Let  the  freebooter 
roast,"  said  Tom,  "  who  cares!  "  He  now 
felt  convinced  that  all  he  had  heard  and  seen 
was  no  illusion. 

He  was  not  prone  to  let  his  wife  into  his 
confidence;  but  as  this  was  an  uneasy  se- 
101 


Washington  Irving 

cret,  he  willingly  shared  it  with  her.  All 
her  avarice  was  awakened  at  the  mention 
of  hidden  gold,  and  she  urged  her  husband 
to  comply  with  the  black  man's  terms,  and 
secure  what  would  make  them  wealthy  for 
life.  However  Tom  might  have  felt  disposed 
to  sell  himself  to  the  devil,  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  do  so  to  oblige  his  wife;  so 
he  flatly  refused,  out  of  the  mere  spirit  of 
contradiction.  Many  and  bitter  were  the 
quarrels  they  had  on  the  subject;  but  the 
more  she  talked,  the  more  resolute  was  Tom 
not  to  be  damned  to  please  her. 

At  length  she  determined  to  drive  the 
bargain  on  her  own  account,  and  if  she  suc- 
ceeded, to  keep  all  the  gain  to  herself.  Be- 
ing of  the  same  fearless  temper  as  her  hus- 
band, she  set  off  for  the  old  Indian  fort  to- 
ward the  close  of  a  summer's  day.  She  was 
many  hours  absent.  When  she  came  back. 
she  was  reserved  and  sullen  in  her  replies. 
She  spoke  something  of  a  black  man,  whom 
she  had  met  about  twilight  hewing  at  the 
root  of  a  tall  tree.  He  was  sulky,  however, 
and  would  not  come  to  terms;  she  was  to 
go  again  with  a  propitiatory  offering,  but 
what  it  was  she  forebore  to  say. 

The  next  evening  she  set  off  again  for  the 
swamp,  with  her  apron  heavily  laden.  Tom 
waited  and  waited  for  her,  but  in  vain;  mid- 
night came,  but  she  did  not  make  her  ap- 
pearance; morning,  noon,  night  returned. 
102 


The  Devil  and  Tom   Walker 

but  still  she  did  not  come.  Tom  now  grew 
uneasy  for  her  safety,  especially  as  he  found 
she  had  carried  off  in  her  apron  the  silver 
teapot  and  spoons,  and  every  portable  article 
of  value.  Another  night  elapsed;  another 
morning  came;  but  no  wife.  In  a  word,  she 
was  never  heard  of  more. 

What  was  her  real  fate  nobody  knows,  in 
consequence  of  so  many  pretending  to  know. 
It  is  one  of  those  facts  which  have  become 
confounded  by  a  variety  of  historians. 
Seme  asserted  that  she  lost  her  way  among 
the  tangled  mazes  of  the  swamp,  and  sank 
into  some  pit  or  slough;  others,  more  un- 
charitable, hinted  that  she  had  eloped  with 
the  household  booty,  and  made  off  to  some 
other  province;  while  others  surmised  that 
the  tempter  had  decoyed  her  into  a  dismal 
quagmire,  on  the  top  of  which  her  hat  was 
found  lying.  In  confirmation  of  this,  it  was 
said  a  great  black  man,  with  an  axe  on  his 
shoulder,  was  seen  late  that  very  evening 
coming  out  of  the  swamp,  carrying  a  bundle 
tied  in  a  check  apron,  with  an  air  of  surly 
triumph. 

The  most  current  and  probable  story, 
however,  observes  that  Tom  Walker  grew 
so  anxious  about  the  fate  of  his  wife  and  his 
property  that  he  set  out  at  length  to  seek 
them  both  at  the  Indian  fort.  During  a  long 
summer's  afternoon  he  searched  about  the 
gloomy  place,  but  no  wife  was  to  be  seen. 
103 


Washington   Irving 

He  called  her  name  repeatedly,  but  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  heard.  The  bittern  alone  re- 
sponded to  his  voice,  as  he  flew  scream- 
ing by;  or  the  bull-frog  croaked  dolefully 
from  a  neighboring  pool.  At  length,  it  is 
said,  just  in  the  brown  hour  of  twilight, 
when  the  owls  began  to  hoot,  and  the  bats  to 
flit  about,  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the 
clamor  of  carrion  crows  hovering  about  a 
cypress-tree.  He  looked  up,  and  beheld  a 
bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron,  and  hanging 
in  the  branches  of  the  tree,  with  a  great 
vulture  perched  hard  by,  as  if  keeping  watch 
upon  it.  He  leaped  with  joy;  for  he  recog- 
nized his  wife's  apron,  and  supposed  it  to 
contain  the  household  valuables. 

"  Let  us  get  hold  of  the  property,"  said  he, 
consolingly,  to  himself,  "  and  we  will  en- 
deavor to  do  without  the  woman." 

As  he  scrambled  up  the  tree,  the  vulture 
spread  its  wide  wings,  and  sailed  off  scream- 
ing, into  the  deep  shadows  of  the  forest. 
Tom  seized  the  checked  apron,  but,  woful 
sight!  found  nothing  but  a  heart  and  liver 
tied  up  in  it! 

Such,  according  to  this  most  authentic 
old  story,  was  all  that  was  to  be  found  of 
Tom's  wife.  She  had  probably  attempted  to 
deal  with  the  black  man  as  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  deal  with  her  husband;  but 
though  a  female  scold  is  generally  consid- 
ered a  match  for  the  devil ,  yet  in  this  in- 
104 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

stance  she  appears  to  have  had  the  worst 
of  it.  She  must  have  died  game,  however; 
for  it  is  said  Tom  noticed  many  prints  of 
cloven  feet  deeply  stamped  about  the  tree, 
and  found  handfuls  of  hair,  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  plucked  from  the  coarse,  black 
shock  of  the  woodman.  Tom  knew  his  wife's 
prowess  by  experience.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  as  he  looked  at  the  signs  of  a 
fierce  clapper-clawing.  "  Egad,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  Old  Scratch  must  have  had  a 
tough  time  of  it!  " 

Tom  consoled  himself  for  the  loss  of  his 
property,  with  the  loss  of  his  wife,  for  he 
was  a  man  of  fortitude.  He  even  felt  some- 
thing like  gratitude  toward  the  black  wood- 
man, who,  he  considered,  had  done  him  a 
kindness.  He  sought,  therefore,  to  culti- 
vate a  further  acquaintance  with  him,  but 
for  some  time  without  success;  the  old 
blacklegs  played  shy,  for  whatever  people 
may  think,  he  is  not  always  to  be  had  for 
calling  for;  he  knows  how  to  play  his  cards 
when  pretty  sure  of  his  game. 

At  length,  it  is  said,  when  delay  had 
whetted  Tom's  eagerness  to  the  quick,  and 
prepared  him  to  agree  to  anything  rather 
than  not  gain  the  promised  treasure,  he 
met  the  black  man  one  evening  in  his  usual 
woodman's  dress,  with  his  axe  on  his 
shoulder,  sauntering  along  the  swamp,  and 
humming  a  time.  He  affected  to  receive 
105 


Washington   Irvin; 


Tom's  advances  with  great  indifference, 
made  brief  replies,  and  went  on  humming 
his  tune. 

By  degrees,  however,  Tom  brought  him  to 
business,  and  they  began  to  haggle  about  the 
terms  on  which  the  former  was  to  have  the 
pirate's  treasure.  There  was  one  condition 
which  need  not  be  mentioned,  being  gener- 
ally understood  in  all  cases  where  the  devil 
grants  favors;  but  there  were  others  about 
which,  though  of  less  importance,  he  was  in- 
flexibly obstinate.  He  insisted  that  the 
money  found  through  his  means  should  be 
employed  in  his  service.  He  proposed,  there- 
fore, that  Tom  should  employ  it  in  the  black 
traffic;  that  is  to  say,  that  he  should  fit  out 
a  slave-ship.  This,  however,  Tom  resolutely 
refused:  he  was  bad  enough  in  all  con- 
science; but  the  devil  himself  could  not 
tempt  him  to  turn  slave-trader. 

Finding  Tom  so  squeamish  on  this  point, 
he  did  not  insist  upon  it,  but  proposed, 
instead,  that  he  should  turn  usurer;  the 
devil  being  extremely  anxious  for  the  in- 
crease of  usurers,  looking  upon  them  as  his 
peculiar  people. 

To  this  no  objections  were  made,  for  it  was 
just  to  Tom's  taste. 

';  You  shall  open  a  broker's  shop  in  Boston 
next  month."  said  the  black  man. 

"  I'll  do  it  to-morrow,  if  you  wish,"  said 
Tom  Walker. 

106 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

"  You  shall  lend  money  at  two  per  cent,  a 
month." 

"  Egad,  I'll  charge  four!  "  replied  Tom 
Walker. 

"  You  shall  extort  bonds,  foreclose  mort- 
gages, drive  the  merchants  to  bankruptcy" — 

"  I'll  drive  them  to  the  d— —  1,"  cried  Tom 
Walker. 

"  You  are  the  usurer  for  my  money!  "  said 
blacklegs  with  delight.  "  When  will  you 
want  the  rhino?  " 

"  This  very  night." 

"  Done!  "  said  the  devil. 

"  Done!  "  said  Tom  Walker.  So  they  shook 
hands  and  struck  a  bargain. 

A  few  days'  time  saw  Tom  Walker  seated 
behind  his  desk  in  a  counting-house  in 
Boston. 

His  reputation  for  a  ready-moneyed  man, 
wrho  would  lend  money  out  for  a  good  con- 
sideration, soon  spread  abroad.  Everybody 
remembers  the  time  of  Governor  Belcher, 
when  money  was  particularly  scarce.  It 
was  a  time  of  paper  credit.  The  country  had 
heen  deluged  with  government  bills,  the  fa- 
mous Land  Bank  had  been  established; 
there  had  been  a  rage  for  speculating;  the 
people  had  run  mad  with  schemes  for  new 
settlements;  for  building  cities  in  the  wil- 
derness; land-jobbers  went  about  with  maps 
of  grants,  and  townships,  and  Eldorados, 
lying  nobody  knew  where,  but  which  every- 
107 


Washington   Irvin< 


body  was  ready  to  purchase.  In  a  word, 
the  great  speculating  fever  which  breaks 
out  every  now  and  then  in  the  country,  had 
raged  to  an  alarming  degree,  and  everybody 
was  dreaming  of  making  sudden  fortunes 
from  nothing.  As  usual,  the  fever  had  sub- 
sided; the  dream  had  gone  off,  and  the 
imaginary  fortunes  with  it;  the  patients 
were  left  in  doleful  plight,  and  the  whole 
country  resounded  with  the  consequent  cry 
of  "  hard  times." 

At  this  propitious  time  of  public  distress 
did  Tom  Walker  set  up  as  usurer  in  Boston. 
His  door  was  soon  thronged  by  customers. 
The  needy  and  adventurous;  the  gambling 
speculator;  the  dreaming  land-jobber;  the 
thriftless  tradesman;  the  merchant  with 
cracked  credit;  in  short,  every  one  driven  to 
raise  money  by  desperate  means  and  des- 
perate sacrifices,  hurried  to  Tom  Walker. 

Thus  Tom  was  the  universal  friend  of 
the  needy,  and  acted  like  a  "  friend  in  need;" 
that  is  to  say,  he  always  exacted  good  pay 
and  good  security.  In  proportion  to  the 
distress  of  the  applicant  was  the  hardness 
cf  his  terms.  He  accumulated  bonds  and 
mortgages;  gradually  squeezed  his  custom- 
ers closer  and  closer:  and  sent  them  at 
length,  dry  as  a  sponge,  from  his  door. 

In  this  way  he  made  money  hand  over 
hand;  became  a  rich  and  mighty  man,  and 
exalted  his  cocked  hat  upon  'Change.  He 
103 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

built  himself,  as  usual,  a  vast  house,  out  of 
ostentation;  but  left  the  greater  part  of  it 
unfinished  and  unfurnished,  out  of  parsi- 
mony. He  even  set  up  a  carriage  in  the 
fulness  of  his  vainglory,  though  he  nearly 
starved  the  torses  which  drew  it;  and  as 
the  ungreased  wheels  groaned  and  screeched 
on  the  axle-trees,  you  would  have  thought 
you  heard  the  souls  of  the  poor  debtors  he 
was  squeezing. 

As  Tom  waxed  old,  however,  he  grew 
thoughtful.  Having  secured  the  good  things 
of  this  world,  he  began  to  feel  anxious  about 
those  of  the  next.  He  thought  with  regret 
on  the  bargain  he  had  made  with  his  black 
friend,  and  set  his  wits  to  work  to  cheat 
him  out  of  the  conditions.  He  became,  there- 
fore, all  of  a  sudden,  a  violent  church- 
goer. He  prayed  loudly  and  strenuously,  as 
if  heaven  were  to  be  taken  by  force  of 
lungs.  Indeed,  one  might  always  tell  when 
he  had  sinned  most  during  the  week,  by  the 
clamor  of  his  Sunday  devotion.  The  quiet 
Christians  who  had  been  modestly  and 
steadfastly  travelling  Zionward,  were  struck 
with  self-reproach  at  seeing  themselves  so 
suddenly  outstripped  in  their  career  by  this 
new-made  convert.  Tom  was  as  rigid  in 
religious  as  in  money  matters;  he  was  a 
stern  supervisor  and  censurer  of  his  neigh- 
bors, and  seemed  to  think  every  sin  entered 
up  to  their  account  became  a  credit  on  his 
109 


Washington   Irving 

own  side  of  the  page.  He  even  talked  of 
the  expediency  of  reviving  the  persecution 
of  Quakers  and  Anabaptists.  In  a  word, 
Tom's  zeal  became  as  notorious  as  his  riches. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  this  strenuous  atten- 
tion to  forms,  Tom  had  a  lurking  dread  that 
the  devil,  after  all,  would  have  his  due.  That 
he  might  not  be  taken  unawares,  therefore, 
it  is  said  he  always  carried  a  small  Bible  in 
his  coat-pocket.  He  had  also  a  great  folio 
Bible  on  his  counting-house  desk,  and  would 
frequently  be  found  reading  it  when  people 
called  on  business;  on  such  occasions  he 
would  lay  his  green  spectacles  in  the  book, 
to  mark  the  place,  while  he  turned  round  to 
drive  some  usurious  bargain. 

Some  say  that  Tom  grew  a  little  crack- 
brained  in  his  old  days,  and  that,  fancying 
his  end  approaching,  he  had  his  horse  new 
shod,  saddled  and  bridled,  and  buried  with 
his  feet  uppermost;  because  he  supposed  that 
at  the  last  day  the  world  would  be  turned 
upside-down;  in  which  case  he  should  find 
his  horse  standing  ready  for  mounting,  and 
he  was  determined  at  the  worst  to  give  his 
old  friend  a  run  for  it.  This,  however,  is 
probably  a  mere  old  wives'  fable.  If  he 
really  did  take  such  a  precaution,  it  was 
totally  superfluous;  at  least  so  says  the  au- 
thentic old  legend;  which  closes  his  story 
in  the  following  manner. 

One  hot  summer  afternoon  in  the  dog- 
110 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

days,  just  as  a  terrible  black  thunder-gust 
was  coming  up,  Tom  sat  in  his  counting- 
house,  in  his  white  linen  cap  and  India  silk 
morning-gown.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
foreclosing  a  mortgage,  by  which  lie  would 
complete  the  ruin  of  an  unlucky  land-spec- 
ulator for  whom  he  had  professed  the  great- 
est friendship.  The  poor  land-jobber  begged 
him  to  grant  a  few  fnonths'  indulgence. 
Tom  had  grown  testy  and  irritated,  and  re- 
fused another  day. 

"  My  family  will  be  ruined,  and  brought 
upon  the  parish,"  said  the  land-jobber. 
"Charity  begins  at  home,"  replied  Tom;  "I 
must  take  care  of  myself  in  these  hard 
times." 

"  You  have  made  so  much  money  out  of 
me,"  said  the  speculator. 

Tom  lost  his  patience  and  his  piety.  "  The 
devil  take  me,"  said  he,  "  if  I  have  made  a 
farthing!  " 

Just  then  there  were  three  loud  knocks 
at  the  street  door.  He  stepped  out  to  see 
who  was  there.  A  black  man  was  holding 
a  black  horse,  which  neighed  and  stamped 
with  impatience. 

"  Tom,  you're  come  for,"  said  the  black 
fellow,  gruffly.  Tom  shrank  back,  but  too 
late.  He  had  left  his  little  Bible  at  the 
bottom  of  his  coat-pocket,  and  his  big  Bible 
on  the  desk  buried  under  the  mortgage  he 
was  about  to  foreclose:  never  was  sinner 
111 


Washington  Irving- 
taken  more  unawares.  The  black  man 
whisked  him  like  a  child  into  the  saddle, 
gave  the  horse  the  lash,  and  away  he  gal- 
loped, with  Tom  on  his  back,  in  the  midst  of 
the  thunder-storm.  The  clerks  stuck  their 
pens  behind  their  ears,  and  stared  after  him 
from  the  windows.  Away  went  Tom  Walker, 
dashing  down  the  streets;  his  white  cap 
bobbing  up  and  down;  his  morning-gown 
fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  his  steed  striking 
fire  out  of  the  pavement  at  every  bound. 
When  the  clerks  turned  to  look  for  the 
black  man,  he  had  disappeared. 

Tom  Walker  never  returned  to  foreclose 
the  mortgage.  A  countryman,  who  lived  on 
the  border  of  the  swamp,  reported  that  in 
the  height  of  the  thunder-gust  he  had  heard 
a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  howling 
along  the  road,  and  running  to  the  window 
caught  sight  of  a  figure,  such  as  I  have 
described,  on  a  horse  that  galloped  like  mad 
across  the  fields,  over  the  hills,  and  down 
into  the  black  hemlock  swamp  toward  the 
old  Indian  fort;  and  that  shortly  after  a 
thunderbolt  falling  in  that  direction  seemed 
to  set  the  whole  forest  in  a  blaze. 

The  good  people  of  Boston  shook  their 
heads  and  shrugged  their  shoulders,  but  had 
been  so  much  accustomed  to  witches  and 
goblins,  and  tricks  of  the  devil,  in  all  kinds 
of  shapes,  from  the  first  settlement  of  the 
colony,  that  they  were  not  so  much  horror- 
112 


The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 

struck  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Trustees  were  appointed  to  take  charge  of 
Tom's  effects.  There  was  nothing,  however, 
to  administer  upon.  On  searching  his  cof- 
fers, all  his  bonds  and  mortgages  were 
found  reduced  to  cinders.  In  place  of  gold 
and  silver,  his  iron  chest  was  filled  with 
chips  and  shavings;  two  skeletons  lay  in 
his  stable  instead  of  his  half-starved  horses, 
and  the  very  next  day  his  great  house  took 
fire  and  was  burnt  to  the  ground. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Tom  Walker  and 
his  ill-gotten  wealth.  Let  all  griping  money- 
brokers  lay  this  story  to  heart.  The  truth 
of  it  is  not  to  be  doubted.  The  very 
hole  under  the  oak-trees,  whence  he  dug 
Kidd's  money,  is  to  be  seen  to  this  day; 
and  the  neighboring  swamp  and  old  Indian 
fort  are  often  haunted  in  stormy  nights  by 
a  figure  on  horseback,  in  morning-gown  and 
wmite  cap,  which  is  doubtless  the  troubled 
spirit  of  the  usurer.  In  fact,  the  story  has 
resolved  itself  into  a  proverb,  and  is  the 
origin  of  that  popular  saying,  so  prevalent 
through  New  England,  of  "  The  Devil 
and  Tom  Walker." 


113 


The  Voyage 


115 


The  Voyage 


Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 
What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading. 
Halloo  !  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ?— Old  Poem. 


To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long 
voyage  he  has  to  make  is  an  excellent  pre- 
parative. The  temporary  absence  of  worldly- 
scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of 
mind  peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and 
vivid  impressions.  The  vast  space  of  wa- 
ters that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like 
a  blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no  grad- 
ual transition,  by  which,  as  in  Europe,  the 
features  and  population  of  one  country  blend 
almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another. 
From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land 
you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy  until  you  step 
on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at 
117 


Washington   Irving 

once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another 
world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity 
of  scene  and  a  connected  succession  of  per- 
sons and  incidents,  that  carry  on  the  story 
of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and 
separation.  We  drag,  it  is  true,  "  a  length- 
ening chain "  at  each  remove  of  our  pil- 
grimage; but  the  chain  is  unbroken:  we  can 
trace  it  back  link  by  link;  and  we  feel  that 
the  last  still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a 
wide  sea-voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes 
us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from  the 
secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent 
adrift  upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes 
a  gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but  real,  be- 
tween us  and  cur  homes — a  gulf  subject 
to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty,  ren- 
dering distance  palpable,  and  return  preca- 
rious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself. 
As  I  saw  the  last  blue  line  of  my  native 
land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the  horizon, 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of 
the  world  and  its  concerns,  and  had,  time 
for  meditation,  before  I  opened  another. 
That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view, 
which  contained  all  most  dear  to  me  in  life; 
what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it,  what 
changes  might  take  place  in  me,  before  I 
should  visit  it  again!  Who  can  tell,  when 
he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be 
118 


The  Voyage 


driven  by  the  uncertain  currents  of  exist- 
ence; or  when  he  may  return;  or  whether 
it  may  ever  be  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes 
ot  his  childhood? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy;  I  should 
correct  the  expression.  To  one  given  to  day 
dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing  himself  in 
reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for 
meditation;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders 
of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend 
to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes. 
I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing, 
or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day, 
and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil 
bosom  of  a  summer's  sea;  to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above 
the  horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms, 
and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own; 
to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  billows,  roll- 
ing their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away 
on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  min- 
gled security  and  awe  with  which  I  looked 
down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the  mon- 
sters of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols. 
Shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow 
of  the  ship;  the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his 
huge  form  above  the  surface;  or  the  raven- 
ous shark,  darting,  like  a  spectre,  through 
the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would  con- 
jure up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of 
the  watery  world  beneath  me;  of  the  finny 
119 


Washington   Irving 

herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of 
the  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among 
the  very  foundations  of  the  earth;  and  of 
those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales 
of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along 
the  edge  of  the  ocean,  would  be  another 
theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting 
this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin 
the  great  mass  of  existence!  What  a  glo- 
rious monument  of  human  invention;  which 
has  in  a  manner  triumphed  over  wind  and 
wave;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world 
into  communion;  has  established  an  inter- 
change of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile 
regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
south;  has  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge 
and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life;  and  has 
thus  bound  together  those  scattered  portions 
of  the  human  race,  between  which  nature 
seemed  to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable 
barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  ob- 
ject drifting  at  a  distance.  At  sea,  every- 
thing that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  sur- 
rounding expanse  attracts  attention.  It 
proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must 
have  been  completely  wrecked;  for  there 
were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which 
some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to 
this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off 
by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace  by 
120 


The  Voyage 


which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascer- 
tained. The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted 
about  for  many  months;  clusters  of  shell- 
fish had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea- 
weeds flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where, 
thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has 
long  been  over — they  have  gone  down  amid 
the  roar  of  the  tempest — their  bones  lie 
whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep. 
Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed 
over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of 
their  end,  What  sighs  have  been  wafted 
after  that  ship!  What  prayers  offered  up  at 
the  deserted  fireside  of  home!  How  often. 
has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored 
over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual 
intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep!  How 
has  expectation  darkened  into  anxiety — ■ 
anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair! 
Alas!  not  one  memento  may  ever  return  for 
love  to  cherish.  All  that  may  ever  be  known, 
is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port,  "  and  was 
never  heard  of  more!  " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise 
to  many  dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particu- 
larly the  case  in  the  evening,  when  the 
weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  be- 
gan to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave 
indications  of  one  of  those  sudden  storms 
which  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the 
serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we  sat 
round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin, 
121 


Washington   Irving 

that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every 
one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster. 
I  was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one 
related  by  the  captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a 
fine  stout  ship  across  the  banks  of  New- 
foundland, one  of  those  heavy  fogs  which 
prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible 
for  us  to  see  far  ahead  even  in  the  day- 
time; but  at  night  the  weather  was  so  thick 
that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights 
at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  for- 
ward to  look  out  for  fishing-smacks,  which 
are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks. 
The  vind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze, 
and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through 
the  water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the 
alarm  of  '  a  sail  ahead!  ' — it  was  scarcely  ut- 
tered before  we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a 
small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her  broad- 
side toward  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep,, 
and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We 
struck  her  just  amidships.  The  force,  the 
size,  and  weight  of  our  vessel  bore  her  down 
below  the  waves;  we  passed  over  her.  and 
hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing 
wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches 
rushing  from  her  cabin;  they  just  started 
from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking 
by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry 
122 


The  Voyage 


mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore 
it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out  of  all  further 
hearing.  I  shall  never  forget  that  cry!  It 
was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship 
about,  she  was  under  such  headway.  We 
returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess,  to  the 
place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We 
cruised  about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense 
fog.  We  fired  signal-guns,  and  listened  if 
we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors ; 
but  all  was  silent — we  never  saw  or  heard 
anything  of  them  more," 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an 
end  to  all  my  fine  fancies.  The  storm  in- 
creased with  the  night.  The  sea  was  lashed 
into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a 
fearful,  sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves,  and 
broken  surges.  Deep  called  unto  deep.  At 
times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  overhead 
seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes  of  lightning 
which  quivered  along  the  foaming  billows, 
and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly 
terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over  the 
wild  waste  of  waters,  and  were  echoed  and 
prolonged  by  the  mountain  waves.  As  I  saw 
the  ship  staggering  and  plunging  among 
r.hese  roaring  caverns,  it  seemed  miraculous 
i.hat  she  regained  her  balance,  or  preserved 
her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would  dip  into 
•  he  water:  her  bow  was  almost  buried  be- 
neath the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impend- 
ing surge  appeared  ready  to  overwhelm  her, 
123 


Washington   Irving 

and  nothing  but  a  dexterous  movement  of 
the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful 
scene  still  followed  me.  The  whistling  of 
the  wind  through  the  rigging  sounded  like 
funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the 
masts,  the  straining  and  groaning  of  bulk- 
heads, as  the  ship  labored  in  the  weltering 
sea,  were  frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves 
rushing  alonfo-  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and  roar- 
ing in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death 
were  raging  round  this  floating  prison,  seek- 
ing for  his  prey;  the  mere  starting  of  a 
nail,  the  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  have 
given  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea 
and  favoring  breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dis- 
mal reflections  to  flight.  It  is  impossible  to 
resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine 
weather  and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the 
ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her  canvas,  every 
sail  swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the 
curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant  she 
appears — how  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the 
deep! 

I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries 
of  a  sea-voyage,  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a 
continual  reverie — but  it  is  time  to  get  to 
shore. 

It  wTas  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the 
thrilling  cry  of  "  land!  "  was  given  from  the 
mast-head.  None  but  those  wno  have  ex- 
124 


The  Voyage 


perienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  deli- 
cious throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into 
an  American's  bosom  when  he  first  comes 
in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume  of 
associations  with  the  very  name.  It  is  the 
land  of  promise,  teeming  with  everything 
of  which  his  childhood  has  heard,  or  on 
which  his  studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  ar- 
rival, it  was  all  feverish  excitement.  The 
ships-of-war  that  prowled  like  guardian  gi- 
ants along  the  coast  of  the  headlands  of 
Ireland,  stretching  out  into  the  channel;  the 
Welsh  mountains,  towering  into  the  clouds: 
all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As  we 
sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the 
shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with 
delight  on  neat  cottages,  with  their  trim 
shrubberies  and  green  grass  plots.  I  saw  the 
mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with 
ivy,  and  the  taper  spire  of  a  village  church 
rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighboring  hill; 
all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that 
the  ship  was  enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the 
pier.  It  v/as  thronged  with  people:  some, 
idle  lookers-on;  others,  eager  expectants  of 
friends  or  relatives.  I  could  distinguish  the 
merchant  to  whom  the  ship  was  consigned. 
I  knew  him  by  his  calculating  brow  and 
restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his 
pocket ;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and 
125 


Washington   Irving 

walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space  having 
been  accorded  him  by  the  crowd,  in  defer- 
ence to  his  temporary  importance.  There 
were  repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  in- 
terchanged between  the  shore  and  the  ship, 
as  friends  happened  to  recognize  each  other. 
I  particularly  noticed  one  young  woman  of 
humble  dress,  but  interesting  demeanor. 
She  was  leaning  forward  from  among  the 
crowd;  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it 
neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished  for 
countenance.  She  seemed  disappointed  and 
agitated;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice  call 
her  name.  It  was  from  a  poor  sailer  who 
had  been  ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited 
the  sympathy  of  every  one  on  board.  When 
the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had 
spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the 
shade;  but  of  late  his  illness  had  so  in- 
creased that  he  had  taken  to  his  hammock, 
and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see 
his  wife  before  he  died.  He  had  been  helped 
on  deck  as  we  came  up  the  river,  and  was 
now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with  a 
countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly, 
that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the  eye  of 
affection  did  not  recognize  him.  But  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his 
features;  it  read  at  once  a  whole  volume 
of  sorrow;  she  clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a 
faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in 
silent  agony. 

126 


The  Voyage 


All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meet- 
ings of  acquaintances — the  greeting  of 
friends — the  consultations  of  men  of  busi- 
ness. I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had 
no  friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive. 
I  stepped  upon  the  land  of  my  forefathers— 
but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 


127 


Westminster   Abbey 


129 


Westminster  Abbey 


When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stoney  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorter 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  offenselesse  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination  ? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whoine  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon. 
Could  not  content  or  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.    1598. 


On  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  mel- 
ancholy days,  in  the  latter  part  of  autumn, 
when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  evening 
almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom 
over  the  decline  of  the  year,  I  passed  several 
hours  in  rambling  about  Westminster  Abbey. 
There  was  something  congenial  to  the  sea- 
son in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old 
pile;  and,  as  I  passed  its  threshold,  seemed 
like  stepping  back  into  the  regions  of  an- 
131 


Washington  Irving 

tiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades 
of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  West- 
minster School,  through  a  long,  low, 
vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  subter- 
ranean look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part 
by  circular  perforations  in  the  massive 
walls.  Through  this  dark  avenue  I  had  a 
distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure 
of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving 
along  their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming  like 
a  spectre  from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs. 
The  aproach  to  the  abbey  through  these 
gloomy  monastic  remains  prepares  the  mind 
for  its  solemn  contemplation.  The  cloisters 
still  retain  something  of  the  quiet  and  se- 
clusion of  former  days.  The  gray  walls  are 
discolored  by  damps,  and  crumbling  with 
age;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over 
the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments, 
and  obscured  the  death's  heads,  and  other 
funereal  emblems.  The  sharp  touches  of  the 
chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the 
arches;  the  roses  which  adorned  the  key- 
stones have  lost  their  leafy  beauty;  every- 
thing bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapida- 
tions of  time,  which  yet  has  something 
touching  and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  au- 
tumnal ray  into  the  square  of  the  cloisters; 
beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass  in  the 
centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the 
132 


Westminster  Abbey 

vaulted  passage  with  a  kind  of  dusky  splen- 
dor. From  between  the  arcades,  the  eye 
glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  pass- 
ing cloud,  and  beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles 
of  the  abbey  towering  into  the  azure  heaven. 
As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  con- 
templating this  mingled  picture  of  glory  and 
decay,  and  sometimes  endeavoring  to  de- 
cipher the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones, 
which  formed  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet, 
my  eye  was  attracted  to  three  figures  rudely 
carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by 
the  footsteps  of  many  generations.  The?/ 
were  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early  ab- 
bots; the  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced; 
the  names  alone  remained,  having  no  doubt 
been  renewed  in  later  times.  (Vitalis.  Ab- 
bas. 10S2,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Ab- 
bas. 1114,  and  Laurentius.  Abbas.  1176.)  I 
remained  some  little  while,  musing  over 
these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left 
like  wrecks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time, 
telling  no  tale  but  that  such  beings  had 
been,  and  had  perished;  teaching  no  moral 
but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which  hopes 
still  to  exact  homage  in  its  ashes,  and  to 
live  in  an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and 
even  these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated, 
and  the  monument  will  cease  to  be  a  me- 
morial. Whilst  I  was  yet  looking  down 
upon  these  gravestones,  I  was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  the  abbey  clock,  reverberating 
133 


Washington   Irving; 

from  buttress  to  buttress,  and  echoing 
among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling 
to  hear  this  warning  of  departed  time  sound- 
ing among  the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse 
of  the  hour,  which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled 
us  onward  toward  the  grave.  I  pursued  my 
walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the 
magnitude  of  the  building  breaks  fully  upon 
the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults  of  the 
cloisters.  The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at 
clustered  columns  of  gigantic  dimensions, 
with  arches  springing  from  them  to  such 
an  amazing  height;  and  man  wandering 
about  their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignificance 
in  comparison  with  his  own  handiwork. 
The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edi- 
fice produces  a  profound  and  mysterious  awe. 
We  step  cautiously  and  softly  about,  as  if 
fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of 
the  tomb;  while  every  footfall  whispers 
along  the  walls,  and  chatters  among  the 
sepulchres,  making  us  more  sensible  of  the 
quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the 
place  presses  down  upon  the  soul,  and  hushes 
the  beholder  into  noiseless  reverence.  We 
feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congre- 
gated bones  of  the  great  men  of  past  times, 
who  have  filled  history  with  their  deeds, 
and  the  earth  with  their  renown. 

And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the 
134 


Westminster  Abbey 

vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  how  they 
are  crowded  together  and  jostled  in  the  dust; 
what  parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a 
scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  corner,  a  little  por- 
tion of  earth,  to  those  whom,  when  alive, 
kingdoms  could  not  satisfy;  and  how  many 
shapes,  and  forms,  and  artifices  are  devised 
to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passen- 
ger, and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for  a  few 
short  years,  a  name  which  once  aspired  to 
occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  ad- 
miration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poets'  Corner,  which 
occupies  an  end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or 
cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The  monuments 
are  generally  simple;  for  the  lives  of  literary 
men  afford  no  striking  themes  for  the  sculp- 
tor. Shakespeare  and  Addison  have  statues 
erected  to  their  memories;  but  the  greater 
part  have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes 
mere  inscriptions.  Notwithstanding  the 
simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  always 
observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey  re- 
mained longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and 
fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold  cu- 
riosity or  vague  admiration  with  which  they 
gaze  on  the  splendid  monuments  of  the  great 
and  the  heroic.  They  linger  about  these  as 
about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions; 
for  indeed  there  is  something  of  companion- 
ship between  the  author  and  the  reader. 
Other  men  are  known  to  posterity  only 
135 


Washington  Irving 


through  the  medium  of  history,  which  is 
continually  growing  faint  and  obscure;  but 
the  intercourse  between  the  author  and  his 
feliowmen  is  ever  new,  active  and  immedi- 
ate. He  has  lived  for  them  more  than  for 
himself;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  en- 
joyments, and  shut  himself  up  from  the  de- 
lights of  social  life,  that  he  might  -the  more, 
intimately  commune  with  distant  minds  and 
distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  cherish 
his  renown;  for  it  has  been  purchased,  not 
by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the 
diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may 
posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory;  for  he 
has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty 
names  and  sounding  actions,  but  whole 
treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought, 
and  golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poets'  Corner,  I  continued  my  stroll 
toward  that  part  of  the  abbey  which  contains 
the  sepulchres  of  the  kings.  I  wandered 
among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which 
are  now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  the  great.  At  every  turn  I  met 
with  some  illustrious  name  or  the  cogni- 
zance of  some  powerful  house  renowned  in 
history.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these  dusky 
chambers  cf  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of 
quaint  effigies;  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as 
if  in  devotion;  others  stretched  upon  the 
tombs,  with  hands  piously  pressed  together; 
warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  bat- 
136 


Westminster  Abbey 

tie;  prelates  with  croziers  and  mitres;  and 
nobles  in  robes  and  coronets,  lying  as  it 
were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this  scene, 
so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form 
is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if 
we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that  fabled 
city  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly 
transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which 
lay  the  effigy  of  a  knight  in  complete  ar- 
mor. A  large  buckler  was  on  one  arm;  the 
hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication 
upon  the  breast;  the  face  was  almost  cov- 
ered by  the  morion;  the  legs  were  crossed 
in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  en- 
gaged in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of 
a  Crusader;  of  one  of  those  military  enthu- 
siasts who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and 
romance,  and  whose  exploits  form  the  con- 
necting link  between  fact  and  fiction;  be- 
tween the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There 
is  something  extremely  picturesque  in  the 
tombs  of  these  adventurers,  decorated  as  they 
are  with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic 
sculpture.  They  comport  with  the  anti- 
quated chapels  in  which  they  are  generally 
found;  and  in  considering  them,  the  imag- 
ination is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary 
associations,  the  romantic  fiction,  the  chiv- 
alrous pomp  and  pageantry  which  poetry 
has  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  sepulchre 
of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of  times 
137 


Washington   Irving 


utterly  gone  by;  of  beings  passed  from  rec- 
ollection; of  customs  and  manners  with 
which  ours  have  no  affinity.  They  are  like 
objects  from  some  strange  and  distant  land, 
of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge,  and 
about  which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague 
and  visionary.  There  is  something  ex- 
tremely solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies 
on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the  sleep 
of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  dying 
hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more 
impressive  on  my  feelings  than  the  fanciful 
attitudes,  the  overwrought  conceits,  and  al- 
legorical groups,  which  abound  on  modern 
monuments.  I  have  been  struck,  also,  with 
the  superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepul- 
chral inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble  way, 
in  former  times,  of  saying  things  simply, 
and  yet  saying  them  proudly;  and  I  do 
not  know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier 
consciousness  of  family  worth  and  honor- 
able lineage  than  one  which  affirms,  of  a 
noble  house,  that  "  all  the  brothers  were 
brave,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poets'  Corner 
stands  a  monument  which  is  among  the 
most  renowned  achievements  of  modern 
art;  but  which  to  me  appears  horrible  rather 
than    sublime.  It    is    the    tomb    of    Mrs. 

Nightingale,    by  Roubillac.     The   bottom   of 
the    monument   is   represented    as    throwing 
open  its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted  skele- 
133 


Westminster  Abbey 

ton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is  falling 
from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his 
dart  at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her 
affrighted  husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with 
vain  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow. 
The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth 
and  spirit;  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the 
gibbering  yell  of  triumph  bursting  from  the 
distended  jaws  of  the  spectre.  But  why 
should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  un- 
necessary terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors 
round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love?  The  grave 
should  be  surrounded  by  everything  that 
might  inspire  tenderness  and  veneration  for 
the  dead;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to 
virtue.  It  is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and 
dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and  meditation. 

While  wandering  about  those  gloomy 
vaults  and  silent  aisles,  studying  the  records 
of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  existence 
from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear; 
the  rumbling  of  the  passing  equipage;  the 
murmur  of  the  multitude;  or  perhaps  the 
light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is 
striking  with  the  deathlike  repose  around: 
and  it  has  a  strange  eifect  upon  the  feelings, 
thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurry- 
ing along,  and  beating  against  the  very  walls 
of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb 
to  tomb,  and  from  chapel  to  chapel.  The 
day  was  gradually  wearing  away;  the  dis- 
139 


Washington   Irving 

tant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew 
less  and  less  frequent;  the  sweet-tongued 
bell  was  summoning  to  evening  prayers;  and 
I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their 
white  surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  en- 
tering the  choir.  I  stood  before  the  entrance 
to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of 
steps  lead  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and 
gloomy,  but  magnificent  arch.  Great  gates 
of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn 
heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  re- 
luctant to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mor- 
tals into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the 
pomp  of  architecture,  and  the  elaborate 
beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very 
wails  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament, 
in  crusted  with  tracery,  and  scooped  into 
niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints 
and  martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning 
labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of 
its  weight  and  density,  suspended  aloft,  as 
if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved 
with  the  wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  se- 
curity of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty 
stalls  of  the  Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly 
carved  of  oak,  though  with  the  grotesque 
decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the 
pinnacles  of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  hel- 
mets and  crests  of  the  knights,  with  their 
scarfs  and  swords;  and  above  them  are  sus- 
140 


Westminster  Abbey 

pendecl  their  banners,  emblazoned  with  ar- 
morial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splen- 
dor of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson  with 
the  cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the 
midst  of  this  grand  mausoleum  stands  the 
sepulchre  of  its  founder — his  effigy,  with  thai 
of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb, 
and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly 
Thought  brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnifi- 
cence, this  strange  mixture  of  tombs  and 
trophies;  these  emblems  of  living  and  as- 
piring ambition,  close  beside  mementos 
which  show  the  dust  and  oblivion  in  which 
all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate.  Noth- 
ing impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feel- 
ing of  loneliness  than  to  tread  the  silent 
and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng  and 
pageant.  On  looking  round  on  the  vacant 
stalls  of  the  knights  and  their  esquires,  and 
on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gorgeous  banners 
that  were  once  borne  before  them,  my  im- 
agination conjured  up  the  scene  when  this 
hall  was  bright  with  the  valor  and  beauty  of 
the  land;  glittering  with  the  splendor  of 
jewelled  rank  and  military  array;  alive  with 
the  tread  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of  an 
admiring  multitude.  All  had  passed  away; 
the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon 
the  place,  interrupted  only  by  the  casual 
chirping  of  birds,  which  had  found  their 
way  into  the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests 
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Washington   Irving 


among  its  friezes  and  pendants — sure  signs 
of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the 
banners,  they  were  those  of  men  scattered 
far  and  wide  about  the  world;  some  tossing 
upon  distant  seas;  some  under  arms  in  dis- 
tant lands;  some  mingling  in  the  busy  in- 
trigues of  courts  and  cabinets;  all  seeking 
to  deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  man- 
sion of  shadowy  honors:  the  melancholy  re- 
ward of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  cf  this 
chapel  present  a  touching  instance  of  the 
equality  of  the  grave;  which  brings  down  the 
oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and 
mingles  the  dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  to- 
gether. In  one  is  the  sepulchre  of  the 
haughty  Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that  of 
her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate 
Mary-  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  some 
ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate 
of  the  latter,  mingled  with  indignation  at 
her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Elizabeth's 
sepulchre  continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of 
sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle 
where  Mary  lies  buried.  The  light  struggles 
dimly  through  windows  darkened  by  dust. 
The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep 
shadow,  and  the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted 
by  time  and  weather.  A  marble  figure  of 
Mary  is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round 
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Westminster  Abbey 

which  is  an  iron  railing,  much  corroded, 
bearing  her  national  emblem — the  thistle. 
I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down 
to  rest  myself  by  the  monument,  revolving 
in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disastrous 
story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased 
from  the  abbey.  I  could  only  hear,  now  and 
then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest  re- 
peating the  evening  service,  and  the  faint, 
responses  of  the  choir — these  paused  for  a 
time,  and  all  were  hushed.  The  stillness, 
the  desertion  and  obscurity  that  were  grad- 
ually prevailing  around,  gave  a  deeper  and 
more  solemn  interest  to  the  place. 

For   in  the   silent   grave   no   conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel — nothing  is  heard, 
For  nothing  is,   but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,   and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring 
organ  burst  upon  the  ear,  falling  with  dou- 
bled and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling, 
as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How 
well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur  accord 
with  this  mighty  building!  With  what 
pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults, 
and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through 
these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent 
sepulchre  vocal!  And  now  they  rise  in  tri- 
143 


Washington   Irving 

uraph  and  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and 
higher  their  accordant  notes,  and  piling 
sound  on  sound.  And  now  they  pause,  and 
the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into 
sweet  gushes  of  melody;  they  soar  aloft,  and 
warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play 
about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs 
of  heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves 
its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air  into 
music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul. 
What  long-drawn  cadences!  What  solemn 
sweeping  concords!  It  grows  more  and 
more  dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast 
pile,  and  seems  iio  jar  the  very  walls — the 
ear  is  stunned — the  senses  are  overwhelmed. 
And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee- 
it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the 
very  soul  seems  rapt  away  and  floated  up- 
ward on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of 
reverie  which  a  strain  of  music  is  apt  some- 
times to  inspire:  the  shadows  of  evening 
were  gradually  thickening  round  me;  the 
monuments  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper 
gloom;  and  the  distant  clock  again  gave 
token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As 
I  descended  the  flight  of  steps  which  lead 
into  the  body  of  the  building,  my  eye  was 
caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor, and  I  ascended  the  small  staircase 
that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a 
144 


Westminster  Abbey 

general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs. 
The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  plat- 
form, and  close  around  it  are  the  sepul- 
chres of  various  kings  and  queens.  From 
this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down  between 
pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels 
and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs — 
where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and 
statesmen  lie  mouldering  in  their  "  beds  of 
darkness."  Close  by  me  stood  the  great 
chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak, 
in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and 
Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if 
contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce 
an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a 
type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  hu- 
man pomp  and  power;  here  it  was  literally 
but  a  step  from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre. 
Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous 
mementos  had  been  gathered  together  as  a 
lesson  to  living  greatness? — to  show  it,  even 
in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the 
neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon 
arrive;  how  soon  that  crown  which  en- 
circles its  brow  must  pass  away,  and  it  must 
lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the 
tomb  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet 
of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude.  For, 
strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no 
longer  a  sanctuary.  There  is  a  shocking 
levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads  them 
to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things; 
145 


Washington   Irving 


and  there  are  base  minds,  which  delight 
to  revenge  on  the  illustrious  dead  the  ab- 
ject homage  and  grovelling  servility  which 
they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor  has  been  broken  open, 
and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their  funereal 
ornaments;  the  sceptre  has  been  stolen  from 
the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth,  and  the 
effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a 
royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof  how 
false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind. 
Some  are  plundered;  some  mutilated;  some 
covered  with  ribaldry  and  insult — all  more 
or  less  outraged  and  dishonored! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly 
streaming  through  the  painted  windows  in 
high  vaults  above  me;  the  lower  parts  of  the 
abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscu- 
rity of  twilight.  The  chapels  and'  aisles 
grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the 
kings  faded  into  shadows;  the  marble  fig- 
ures of  the  monuments  assumed  strange 
shapes  in  the  uncertain  light;  the  evening 
breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the 
cold  breath  of  the  grave;  and  even  the  dis- 
tant footfall  of  a  verger,  traversing  the 
Poets'  Corner,  had  something  strange  and 
dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my 
morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the 
portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing  with 
a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole 
building  with  echoes. 

146 


Westminster  Abbey 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in 
my  mind  of  the  objects  I  had  been  contem- 
plating, but  found  they  were  already  fallen 
into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names, 
inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become  con- 
founded in  my  recollection,  though  I  had 
scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the  thresh- 
old. What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  assem- 
blage of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury  of  humil- 
iation; a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies 
on  the  emptiness  of  renown,  and  the  cer- 
tainly of  oblivion!  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire 
of  death — his  great  shadowy  palace,  where 
he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of 
human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  for- 
getfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes. 
How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immor- 
tality of  a  name!  Time  is  ever  silently  turn- 
ing over  his  pages;  we  are  too  much  en- 
grossed by  the  story  of  the  present,  to  think 
of  the  characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave 
interest  to  the  past;  and  each  age  is  a 
volume  thrown  aside  to  be  speedily  forgot- 
ten. The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the  hero  of 
yesterday  out  of  our  recollection;  and  will, 
in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of 
to-morrow.  "  Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  "  find  their  graves  in  our  short 
memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may 
be  buried  in  our  survivors."  History  fades 
into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt 
and  controversy;  the  inscription  moulders 
147 


Washington  Irving 

from  the  tablet;  the  statue  falls  from  the 
pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what 
are  they  but  heaps  of  sand;  and  their  epi- 
taphs, but  characters  written  in  the  dust? 
What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  per- 
petuity of  an  embalmment?  The  remains  of 
Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scattered  to 
the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now 
the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "  The 
Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time 
hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth;  Miz- 
raim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for 
balsams."  * 

What,  then,  is  to  insure  this  pile  which 
now  towers  above  me  from  sharing  the  fate 
of  mightier  mausoleums?  The  time  must 
come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now 
spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  be- 
neath the  feet;  when,  instead  of  the  sound 
of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle 
through  the  broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot 
from  the  shattered  tower, — when  the  gairish 
sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy  man- 
sions of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the 
fallen  column;  and  the  foxglove  hang  its 
blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes 
away;  his  name  perishes  from  record  and 
recollection;  his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is 
told,  and  his  very  monument  becomes  a 
ruin. 

*  Sir  T.  Browne. 

148 


Stratford-on-Avon 


149 


Stratford-on-Avon 


Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream  ; 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 

For  hallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

Garkick. 

To  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on 
this  wide  world  which  he  can  truly  call  his 
own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling  of  some- 
thing like  independence  and  territorial  con- 
sequence, when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel, 
he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into 
slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn 
fire.  Let  the  world  without  go  as  it  may; 
let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as  he  has 
the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for 
the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he 
surveys.  The  armchair  is  his  throne,  the 
poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  some 
twelve  feet  square,  his  undisputed  empire. 
It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched  from 
the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life;  it  is 
a  sunny  moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a 
cloudy  day;  and  he  who  has  advanced  some 
151 


Washington   Irving 

way  on  a  pilgrimage  of  existence,  knows  the 
importance  of  husbanding  even  morsels 
and  moments  of  enjoyment.  "  Shall  I  not 
take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?  "  thought  I,  as 
I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my  elbow 
chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the 
little  parlor  of  the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just 
passing  through  my  mind  as  the  clock  struck 
midnight  from  the  tower  of  the  church  in 
which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle 
tap  at  the  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid, 
putting  in  her  smiling  face,  inquired,  with 
a  hesitating  air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I 
understood  it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was 
time  to  retire.  My  dream  of  absolute  do- 
minion was  at  an  end;  so  abdicating  my 
throne,  like  a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid 
being  deposed,  and  putting  the  Stratford 
Guide-Book  under  my  arm,  as  a  pillow  com- 
panion, I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt  all  night 
of  Shakspeare,  the  jubilee,  and  David  Gar- 
rick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quick- 
ening mornings  which  we  sometimes  have 
in  early  spring;  for  it  was  about  the  middle 
of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had 
suddenly  given  way;  the  north  wind  had 
spent  its  last  gasp;  and  a  mild  air  came 
stealing  from  the  west,  breathin^  the  breath 
of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing  every  bud 
U3__ 


Stratford-on-Avon 

and  flower  to  burst  forth  into  fragrance  and 
beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pil- 
grimage. My  first  visit  was  to  the  house 
where  Shakspeare  was  born,  and  where, 
according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to 
his  father's  craft  of  wool-combing.  It  is  a 
small,  mean-looking  edifice  of  wood  and  plas- 
ter, a  true  nestling-place  of  genius,  which 
seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its  offspring  in 
by-corners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid  cham- 
bers are  covered  with  names  and  inscrip- 
tions in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all' 
nations,  ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the 
prince  to  the  peasant;  and  present  a  simple, 
but  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and 
universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great 
poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old 
lady,  in  a  frosty  red  face,  lighted  up  by  a 
cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  garnished  with 
artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from 
under  an  exceedingly  dirty  cap.  She  was  pe- 
culiarly assiduous  in  exhibiting  the  relics 
with  which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated 
shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shattered 
stock  of  the  very  matchlock  with  which 
Shakspeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poach- 
ing exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco 
box;  which  proves  that  he  was  a  rival 
smoker  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  the  sword 
also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet;  and  the 
153 


Washington   Irving 


identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Lau- 
rence discovered  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the 
tomb!  There  was  an  ample  supply  also  of 
Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  which  seems 
to  have  as  extraordinary  powers  of  self- 
multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the  true  cross; 
of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a 
ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity, 
however,  is  Shakspeare's  chair.  It  stands 
in  the  chimney  nook  of  a  small  gloomy 
chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's 
shop.  Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat 
when  a  boy,  watching  the  slowly  revolving 
spit  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin;  or 
of  an  evening,  listening  to  the  cronies  and 
gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth  church- 
yard tales  and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the 
troublesome  times  in  England.  In  this 
chair  it  is  the  custom  of  every  one  that  visits 
the  house  to  sit:  whether  this  be  done  with 
the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration 
of  the  bard  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  I  merely 
mention  the  fact;  and  mine  hostess  privately 
assured  me,  that,  though  built  on  solid  oak, 
such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that 
the  chair  had  to  be  new  bottomed  at  least 
once  in  three  vears.  It  is  worthy  of  notice 
also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraordinary 
chair,  that  it  partakes  something  of  the  vola- 
tile nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto, 
or  the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter; 
154 


Stmt  ford-on-A  von 

for  though  sold  some  few  years  since  to  a 
northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to  tell,  it  has 
found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chim- 
ney corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters, 
and  am  ever  willing  to  be  deceived,  where 
the  deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs  nothing.  I 
am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  le- 
gends, and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and 
great  men;  and  would  advise  all  travellers 
who  travel  for  their  gratification  to  be  the 
same.  What  is  it  to  us,  whether  these 
stories  be  true  or  false,  so  long  as  we  can 
persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them, 
and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the  reality? 
There  is  nothing  like  resolute  good-humored 
credulity  in  these  matters;  and  on  this  occa- 
sion I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to  be- 
lieve the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal 
descent  from  the  poet,  when,  luckily  for  my 
faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her 
own  composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her 
consanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakspeare  a  few 
paces  brought  me  to  his  grave.  He  lies 
buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church, 
a  large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with 
age,  but  richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on 
the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an  embowered 
point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens 
from  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Its  situation 
is  quiet  and  retired  ;  the  river  runs  marmur- 
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Washington   Irving 


ing  at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard,  and  the 
elms  which  grow  upon  its  banks  droop 
their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An 
avenue  of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are 
curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form  in  sum- 
mer an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from 
the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch. 
The  graves  are  overgrown  with  grass;  the 
gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk 
into  the  earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss, 
which  has  likewise  tinted  the  reverend  old 
building.  Small  birds  have  built  their  nests 
among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls, 
and  keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirp- 
ing; and  rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing  about 
its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with 
the  gray-headed  sexton,  Edmonds,  and  ac- 
companied him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and 
boy.  for  eighty  years,  and  seemed  still  to 
consider  himself  a  vigorous  man,  with  the 
trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the 
use  of  his  legs  for  a  few  years  past.  His 
dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upon  the 
Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows,  and  was  a 
picture  of  that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort 
v  hich  pervade  the  humblest  dwellings  in 
this  country.  A  low.  white-washed  room, 
with  a  stone  floor  carefully  scrubbed,  served 
for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.  Rows  of 
pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along 
156 


Stratford-on-Avon 

the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken  table,  well 
rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible 
and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained 
the  family  library,  composed  of  about  half 
a  score  of  well-thumbed  volumes.  An  an- 
cient clock,  that  important  article  of  cottage 
furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room;  with  a  bright  warming  pan  hanging 
on  one  side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn- 
handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other.  The 
fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough 
to  admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In 
one  corner  sat  the  old  man's  granddaugh- 
ter sewing,  a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl — and  in 
the  opposite  corner  was  a  superannuated 
crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of 
John  Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had  been  his 
companion  since  childhood.  They  had  played 
together  in  infancy;  they  had  worked  to- 
gether in  manhood;  they  were  now  totter- 
ing about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening 
of  life;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  proba- 
bly be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring 
churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two 
streams  of  existence  running  thus  evenly 
and  tranquilly  side  by  side:  it  is  only  in 
such  citiiet  "  bosom  scenes  "  of  life  that  they 
are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some   traditionary 

anecdotes    of   the    bard    from    these    ancient 

chroniclers;    but   they   had    nothing   new   to 

impart.     The    long    interval    during    which 

157 


Washington   Irving 

Shakspeare's  writings  lay  in  comparative 
neglect  has  spread  its  shadow  over  his  his- 
tory ;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot  that 
scarcely  anything  remains  to  his  biographers 
but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been 
employed  as  carpenters  on  the  preparations 
for  the  celebrated  Stratford  jubilee,  and 
they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover 
of  the  fete,  who  superintended  the  arrange- 
ments, and  who,  according  to  the  sexton, 
was  "  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively  and 
bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in 
cutting  down  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  of 
which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for 
sale;  no  doubt  a  sovereign  quickener  of  lit- 
erary conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy 
wights  speak  very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent 
dame  who  shows  the  Shakspeare  house. 
John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned 
her  valuable  collection  of  relics,  particularly 
her  remains  of  the  mulberry-tree;  and  the 
old  sexton  even  expresed  a  doubt  as  to 
Shakspeare  having  been  born  in  her  house. 
I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her 
mansion  with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the 
poet's  tomb;  the  latter  having  comparative- 
ly but  few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians 
differ  at  the  very  outset,  and  mere  pebbles 
make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge  into  differ- 
ent chanels  even  at  the  fountainhead. 
158 


Stratford-on-Avon 

We  approached  the  church  through  the 
avenue  of  limes,  and  entered  by  a  Gothic 
porch,  highly  ornamented,  with  carved  doors 
of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious, 
and  the  architecture  and  embellishments 
superior  to  those  of  most  country  churches. 
There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of 
nobility  and  gentry,  over  some  of  which 
hang  funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners  drop- 
ping piecemeal  from  the  walls.  The  tomb 
of  Shakspeare  is  in  the  chancel.  The  place 
is  solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  be- 
fore the  pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon, 
which  runs  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
walls,  keeps  up  a  low,  perpetual  murmur.  A 
flat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the  bard  is 
buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed  on  it, 
said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and 
which  have  in  them  something  extremely 
awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his  own,  they 
show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of 
the  grave  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sen- 
sibilities and  thoughtful  minds. 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 
To  dig-  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall, 
is  a  bust  of  Shakspeare,  put  up  shortly  after 
his  death,  and  considered  as  a  resemblance. 
159 


Washington   Irving 


The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a 
finely  arched  forehead,  and  I  thought  I 
could  read  in  it  clear  indications  of  that 
cheerful,  social  disposition,  by  which  he  was 
as  much  characterized  among  his  contem- 
poraries as  by  the  vastness  of  his  genius. 
The  inscription  mentions  his  age  at  the  time 
of  his  decease  — ■  fifty-three  years  ;  an  un- 
timely death  for  the  world  :  for  what  fruit 
might  not  have  been  expected  from  the 
golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered  as 
it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life, 
and  flourishing  in  the  sunshine  of  popular 
and  royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not 
been  without  its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the 
removal  of  his  remains  from  the  bosom  of 
his  native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey, 
which  was  at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few 
years  since  also,  as  some  laborers  were  dig- 
ging to  make  an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth 
caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  al- 
most like  an  arch,  through  which  one  might 
have  reached  into  his  grave.  No  one,  how- 
ever, presumed  to  meddle  with  his  remains 
so  awfully  guarded  by  a  malediction ;  and 
lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the  curious,  or  any 
collector  of  relics,  should  be  tempted  to  com- 
mit depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch 
over  the  place  for  two  days,  until  the  vault 
was  finished  and  the  aperture  closed  again. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look 
160 


Stratford-on-Avon 

in  at  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  coffin 
nor  bones;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was  some- 
thing, I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust  of 
Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife, 
his  favorite  daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others 
of  his  family.  On  a  tomb  close  by,  also,  is 
a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John 
Combe  of  usurious  memory;  on  whom  he  is 
said  to  have  written  a  ludicrous  epitaph. 
There  are  other  monuments  around,  but  the 
mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  anything  that  is 
not  connected  with  Shakspeare.  His  idea 
pervades  the  place ;  the  whole  pile  seems  but 
as  his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer 
checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge 
in  perfect  confidence :  other  traces  of  him 
may  be  false  or  dubious,  but  here  is  palpable 
evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod 
the  sounding  pavement,  there  was  something 
intense  and  thrilling  in  the  idea,  that,  in 
very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare  were 
mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to 
leave  the  place  ;  and  as  I  passed  through  the 
churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of 
the  yew-trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have 
brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a 

pilgrim's  devotion,  but  I  had  a  desire  to  see 

the  old  family  seat  of  the  Lucys,  at  Charle- 

cot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where 

101 


Washington   Irving 

Shakspeare,  in  company  with  some  of  the 
roysterers  of  Stratford,  committed  his  youth- 
ful offense  of  deer-stealing.  In  this  hare- 
brained exploit  we  are  told  that  he  was  taken 
prisoner,  and  carried  to  the  keeper's  lodge, 
where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  cap- 
tivity. When  brought  into  the  presence  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his  treatment  must  have 
been  galling  and  humiliating;  for  it  so 
wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce  a 
rough  pasquinado.  which  was  affixed  to  the 
park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of 
the  knight  so  incensed  him,  that  he  applied 
to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to  put  the  severity 
of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming 
deer-stalker.  Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to 
brave  the  united  puissance  of  a  knight  of  the 
shire  and  a  country  attorney.  He  forthwith 
abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon 
and  his  paternal  trade ;  wandered  away  to 
London ;  became  a  hanger-on  to  the  the- 
atres; then  an  actor,  and,  finally,  wrote  for 
the   stage;    and   thus,   through   the   persecu- 

*The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lam 
poon  :— 

A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace. 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie.  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  great  ; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state. 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie.  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucv  whatever  befall  it. 

162 


Stratford-on-Avon 

tion  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an 
indifferent  wool-comber,  and  the  world 
gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained,  how- 
ever, for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh 
treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  re- 
venged himself  in  his  writings  ;  but  in  the 
sportive  way  of  a  good-natured  mind.  Sir 
Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original  Justice 
Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon 
him  by  the  justice's  armorial  bearings, 
which,  like  those  of  the  knight,  had  white 
luces*  in  the  quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his 
biographers  to  soften  and  explain  away  this 
early  transgression  of  the  poet ;  but  I  look 
upon  it  as  one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits 
natural  to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind. 
Sbakspeare,  when  young,  had  doubtless  all 
the  wildness  and  irregularity  of  an  ardent, 
undisciplined,  and  undirected  genius.  The 
poetic  temperament  has  naturally  something 
in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When  left  to  itself  it 
runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights  in 
everything  eccentric  and  licentious.  It  is 
often  a  turn-up  of  a  die.  in  the  gambling 
freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural  genius  shall 
turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and 
had  not  Shakspeare's  mind  fortunately  taken 
a  literary  bias,  he  might  have  as  daringly 
transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic 
laws. 

*  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon  about 
Charlecot. 

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Washington   Irving 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when 
running,  like  an  unbroken  colt,  about  the 
neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he  was  to  be 
found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd 
anomalous  characters,  that  he  associated 
with  all  the  madcaps  of  the  place,  and  was 
one  of  those  unlucky  urchins,  at  mention  of 
whom  old  men  shake  their  heads,  and  pre- 
dict that  they  will  one  day  come  to  the  gal- 
lows. To  him  the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a 
Scottish  knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and 
as  yet  untamed,  imagination,  as  something 
delightfully  adventurous.* 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in 
his  youthful  days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote, 
picked  up  at  Stratford  by  the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned 
in  his  "  Picturesque  Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little 
market-town  of  Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies 
of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet,  under  the  appellation 
of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge  the  lovers  of  good 
ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a  contest  of  drinking. 
Among  others,  the  people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  to 
prove  the  strength  of  their  heads  :  and  in  the  number  of  the 
champions  was  Shakspeare,  who.  in  spile  of  the  proverb  that 
"they  who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,'"  was  as  true  to  his  ale 
as  Falstaff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  stag- 
gered at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had 
yet  legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely 
marched  a  mile  when,  their  less  failing  them,  they  were 
forced  to  lie  down  under  a  crab-tree,  where  they  passed  the 
night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shak- 
speare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  pro- 
164 


Stratford-on-Avon 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  sur- 
rounding park  still  remain  in  the  possession 
of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are  peculiarly  in- 
teresting, from  being  connected  with  this 
whimsical  but  eventful  circumstance  in  the 
scanty  history  cf  the  bard.  As  the  house 
stood  but  little  more  than  three  miles'  dis- 
tance from  Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a 
pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely 
through  some  of  those  scenes  from  which 
Shakspeare  must  have  derived  his  earliest 
ideas  of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless  ; 
but  English  scenery  is  always  verdant,  and 
the  sudden  change  in  the  temperature  of  the 
weather  was  surprising  in  its  quickening  ef- 
fects upon  the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring 
and  animating  to  witness  this  first  awaken- 
ing of  spring;  to  feel  its  warm  breath  steal- 
ing over  the  senses  ;  to  see  the  moist  mellow 
earth  beginning  to  put  forth  the  green 
sprout  and  the  tender  blade  ;  and  the  trees 
and  shrubs,  in  their  reviving  tints  and  burst- 
posed  returning  to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had 
had  enough,  having  drank  with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 
Dudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bedford. 

"The  villages  here  alluded  to,1'  says  Ireland,  "still  hear 
the  epithets  thus  given  them  :  the  people  of  Pebworth  are 
still  famed  for  their  skill  on  the  pipe  and  tabor  ;  Hilboroug-h 
is  now  called  Haunted  Hilborough  ;  and  Grafton  is  famous 
for  the  poverty  of  its  soil."1 

165 


Washington   Irving 

ing  buds,  giving  the  promise  of  returning 
foliage  and  flower.  The  cold  snowdrop,  that 
little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of  winter,  was 
to  be  seen  with  its  chaste  white  blossoms  in 
the  small  gardens  before  the  cottages.  The 
bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lambs  was  faintly 
heard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow  twit- 
tered about  the  thatched  eaves  and  budding 
hedges;  the  robin  threw  a  livelier  note  into 
his  late  querulous  wintry  strain ;  and  the 
lark,  springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom 
of  the  meadow,  towered  away  into  the  bright 
fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth  torrents  of  mel- 
ody. As  I  watched  the  little  songster, 
mounting  up  higher  and  higher,  until  his 
body  was  a  mere  speck  on  the  white  bosom 
of  the  cloud,  while  the  ear  was  still  filled 
with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind  Shak- 
speare's  exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline:  — 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 

And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise! 

Indeed   the   whole   country   about   here   is 
poetic  ground  :  everything  is  associated  with 
166 


S  t  ratford-on- A  v  on 

the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every  old  cottage 
that.  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort  of  his 
boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  rustic  life  and  manners,  and 
heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild  su- 
perstitions which  he  has  woven  like  witch- 
craft into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are 
told,  it  was  a  popular  amusement  in  winter 
evenings  "  to  sit  around  the  fire,  and  tell 
merry  tales  of  errant  knight,  queens,  lovers, 
lords,  ladies,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheat- 
ers, witches,  fairies,  goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in 
sight  of  Avon,  which  made  a  variety  of 
the  most  fancy  doublings  and  windings 
through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley;  some- 
times glittering  from  among  willows  which 
fringed  its  borders;  sometimes  disappearing 
among  groves,  or  beneath  green  banks;  and 
sometimes  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and 
making  an  azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of 
meadow  land.  This  beautiful  bosom  of  coun- 
try is  called  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.     A 


*  Scot,  in  his  "Discoverie  of  Witchcraft, "  enumerates  a 
host  of  these  fireside  fancies.  "  And  they  have  so  fraid  us 
with  bull-beggars,  spirits,  witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fai- 
ries, satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  syrens,  kit  with  the  can  sticke,  tri- 
tous,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors, 
nymphes,  changelings,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the 
spoorne,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hell-waine,  the 
fier  drake,  the  puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins,  Tom  Tum- 
bler, boneless,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our 
own  shadowes." 

167 


Washington   Irving 


distant  line  of  undulating  blue  hills  seems 
to  be  its  boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft  in- 
tervening landscape  lies  in  a  manner  en- 
chained in  the  silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three 
miles,  I  turned  off  into  a  footpath,  which 
led  along  the  borders  of  fields,  and  under 
hedgerows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park; 
there  was  a  stile,  however,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  pedestrian;  there  being  a  public  right 
of  way  through  the  grounds.  I  delight  in 
these  hospitable  estates,  in  which  every  one 
has  a  kind  of  property — at  least  as  far  as  the 
footpath  is  concerned.  It  in  some  measure 
reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and,  what 
is  more,  to  the  better  lot  cf  his  neighbor, 
thus  to  have  parks  and  pleasure-grounds 
thrown  open  for  his  recreation.  He  breathes 
the  pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuri- 
ously under  the  shade,  as  the  lord  of  the 
soil;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege  of  call- 
ing all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not, 
at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  paying  for 
it,  and  keeping  it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues 
of  oaks  and  elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke 
the  growth  of  centuries.  The  wind  sounded 
solemnly  among  their  branches,  and  the 
rooks  cawed  from  their  hereditary  nests  in 
the  tree-tops.  The  eye  ranged  through  a 
long  lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  inter- 
rupt the  view  but  a  distant  statue;  and  a 
1GS 


Stratford-on-Avon 

vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a  shadow  across 
the  opening.     * 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old 
avenues  that  has  the  effect  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, not  merely  from  the  pretended  sim- 
ilarity of  form,  hut  from  their  bearing  the 
evidenc  of  long  duration,  and  of  having  had 
their  origin  in  a  period  of  time  with  which 
we  associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur. 
They  betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity, 
and  proudly  concentrated  independence  of 
an  ancient  family;  and  I  have  heard  a 
worthy  but  aristocratic  old  friend  observe, 
when  speaking  cf  the  sumptuous  palaces  of 
modern  gentry,  that  "  money  could  do  much 
with  stone  and  mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven, 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  suddenly  build- 
ing up  an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among 
this  rich  scenery,  and  about  the  romantic 
solitudes  of  the  adjoining  park  of  Fullbroke, 
which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy  es- 
tate, that  some  of  Shakspeare's  commen- 
tators have  supposed  he  derived  his  noble 
forest  meditations  of  Jaques,  and  the  en- 
chanting woodland  pictures  in  "  As  You  Like 
It."  It  is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such 
scenes,  that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet 
draughts  of  inspiration,  and  becomes  in- 
tensely sensible  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  cf 
nature.  The  imagination  kindles  into  rev- 
ery  and  rapture;  vague  but  exquisite  im- 
169 


Washington   Irving 

ages  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon  it;  and 
we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incommuni- 
cable luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some 
such  mood,  and  perhaps  under  one  of  those 
very  trees  before  me,  which  threw  their 
broad  shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and 
quivering  waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the 
poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied  forth  into  that 
little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of 
a  rural  voluptuary. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,   come  hither,   come  hither. 

Here  shall   he  see 

No   enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It 
is  a  large  building  of  brick,  with  stone 
quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic  style  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the 
first  year  of  her  reign.  The  exterior  re- 
mains very  nearly  in  its  original  state,  and 
may  be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
residence  of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman 
of  those  days.  A  great  gateway  opens  from 
the  park  into  a  kind  of  courtyard  in  front 
of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot, 
shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in 
170 


Stratford-on-Avon 

imitation  of  the  ancient  barbacan;  being  a 
kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked  by  towers; 
though  evidently  for  mere  ornament,  instead 
of  defence.  The  front  of  the  house  is  com- 
pletely in  the  old  style;  with  stone-shafted 
casements,  a  great  bow-window  of  heavy 
stone-work,  and  a  portal  with  armorial  bear- 
ings over  it,  carved  in  stone.  At  each  cor- 
ner of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower,  sur- 
mounted by  a  gilt  ball  and  weatherccck. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park, 
makes  a  bend  just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently 
sloping  bank,  which  sweeps  down  from  the 
rear  of  the  house.  Large  herds  of  deer  were 
feeding  or  reposing  upon  its  borders;  and 
swans  were  sailing  majestically  upon  its 
besom.  As  I  contemplated  the  venerable 
old  mansion,  I  called  to  mind  Falstaff's  en- 
comium on  Justice  Shallow's  abode,  and  the 
affected  indifference  and  real  vanity  of  the 
latter. 

"  Falsi 'aff.  You  have  a  goodly  dwelling-  and 
a  rich. 

Shallow.  Barren,  barren,  barren;  beggars 
all,  beggars  all,     Sir  John: — marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of 
the  old  mansion  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare, 
it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness  and  solitude. 
The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into 
the  courtyard  was  locked;  there  was  no 
show  of  servants  bustling  about  the  place; 
171 


Washington   Irving 

the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed, 
being  no  longer  harried  by  the  moss-troopers 
of  Stratford.  The  only  sign  of  domestic  life 
that  I  met  with  was  a  white  cat,  stealing 
with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace  toward  the 
stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition. 
I  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of 
a  scoundrel  crow  which  I  saw  suspended 
against  the  barn  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the 
Lucys  still  inherit  that  lordly  abhorrence  of 
poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous  exer- 
cise of  territorial  power  which  was  so  stren- 
uously manifested  in  the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at 
length  found  my  way  to  a  lateral  portal, 
which  was  the  every-day  entrance  to  the 
mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a 
worthy  old  housekeeper,  who,  with  the  civil- 
ity and  communicativeness  of  her  order, 
showed  me  the  interior  of  the  house.  The 
greater  part  has  undergone  alterations,  and 
been  adapted  to  modern  tastes  and  modes  of 
living:  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase; 
and  the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an 
ancient  manor-house,  still  retains  much  of 
the  appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the  days 
of  Shakspeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched  aad 
lofty;  and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery  in  which 
stands  an  organ.  The  weapons  and  trophies 
of  the  chase,  which  formerly  adorned  the 
hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made  way 
for  family  portraits.  There  is  a  wide  hos- 
172 


Stratford-on-Avon 

pitable  fireplace,  calculated  for  an  ample, 
old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly  the  rally- 
ing place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic 
bow-window,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks 
out  upon  the  courtyard.  Here  are  emblaz- 
oned in  stained  glass  the  armorial  bearings 
of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  generations, 
some  being  dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted 
to  observe  in  the  quarterings  the  three 
white  luces,  by  which  the  character  of  Sir 
Thomas  was  first  identified  with  that  of  Jus- 
tice Shallow.  They  are  mentioned  in  the 
first  scene  of  the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor," where  the  justice  is  in  a  rage  with 
Falstaff  for  having  "  beaten  his  men,  killed 
his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge."  The 
poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself 
and  his  comrades  in  mind  at  the  time,  and 
we  may  suppose  the  family  pride  and  vin- 
dictive threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be 
a  caricature  of  the  pompous  indignation  of 
Sir  Thomas. 

" Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not;  I 
will  make  a  Star-Chamber  matter  of  it;  if 
he  were  twenty  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not 
abuse  Sir  Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

Slender.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice 
of  peace,    and  oram. 

Shallow.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custa- 
lorum. 

173 


Washington   Irving 

Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a 
gentleman  born,  master  parson;  who  writes 
himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quit- 
tance,  or  obligation.    Armigero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  I* do;  and  have  done 
any  time  these  three  hundred  years. 

Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him 
have  done  't,  and  all  his  ancestors  that  come 
after  him  may;  they  may  give  the  dozen 
white  luces  in  their  coat.     *  *  *   "  * 

Shalloiv.  The  council  shall  hear  it;  it  is  a 
riot. 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear 
of  a  riot;  there  is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot; 
the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear 
the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot; 
take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shalloiv.  Ha!  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young 
again,  the  sword  should  end  it!  " 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a 
portrait  by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  of  one  of  the  Lucy 
family,  a  great  beauty  of  the  time  of  Charles 
the  Second:  the  old  housekeeper  shook  her 
head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  in- 
formed me  that  this  lady  had  been  sadly 
addicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled  away 
a  great  portion  of  the  family  estate,  among 
which  was  that  part  of  the  park  wdiere 
Shakspeare  and  his  comrades  had  killed 
the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  had  not  been 
entirely  regained  by  the  family  even  at  the 
174 


Stratford-on- A  v  on 

present  day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this  recreant 
dame  to  confess  that  she  had  a  surpassingly 
fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  at- 
tention was  a  great  painting  over  the  fire- 
place, containing  likenesses  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall 
in  the  latter  part  of  Shakspeare's  lifetime. 
I  at  first  thought  that  it  was  the  vindictive 
knight  himself,  but  the  housekeeper  assured 
me  that  it  was  his  son;  the  only  likeness  ex- 
tant of  the  former  being  an  effigy  upon  his 
tomb  in  the  church  of  the  neighboring  ham- 
let of  Charlecot.*    The  picture  gives  a  lively 

*  This  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the  Knight 
in  complete  armor.  Near  him  lies  the  effigy  of  his  wife,  and 
on  her  tomb  is  the  following  inscription  ;  which,  if  really 
composed  by  her  husband,  places  him  qnite  above  the  intel- 
lectual level  of  Master  Shallow  : 

Here  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Lncy 
of  Charlecot  in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and 
heir  of  Thomas  Acton  of  Sutton  in  ye  county  of  Worcester 
Esquire  who  departed  out  of  this  wretched  world  to  her  heav- 
enly kingdom  ye  10  day  of  February  in  ye  yeare  of  our  Lord 
God  1595  and  of  her  age  60  and  three.  All  the  time  of  her 
lyfe  a  true  and  faythful  servant  of  her  good  God,  never 
detected  of  any  cryme  or  vice.  In  religion  most  sounde,  in 
love  to  her  husband  most  faythful  and  true.  In  friendship 
most  constant ;  to  -what  in  trust  was  committed  unto  her 
most  secret.  In  wisdom  excelling.  In  governing  of  her 
house,  bringing  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God  that  did  con- 
verse with  her  moste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner 
of  hospitality.  Greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters  :  misliked 
of  none  unless  of  the  envyous.  When  all  is  spoken  that  can 
be  saide  a  woman  so  garnished  with  virtue  as  not  to  be  bet- 
tered and  hardly  to  be  equalled  by  any.  As  shee  lived  most 
175 


Washington   Irving 

idea  of  the  costume  and  manners  of  the 
time.  Sir  Thomas  is  dressed  in  ruff  and 
doublet;  white  shoes  with  roses  in  them; 
and  has  a  peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slen- 
der would  say,  "  a  cane-colored  beard."  His 
lady  is  seated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
picture,  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher, 
and  the  children  have  a  most  venerable  stiff- 
ness and  formality  of  dress.  Hounds  and 
spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group; 
a  hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the  fore- 
ground, and  one  of  the  children  holds  a 
bow;  all  intimating  the  knight's  skill  in 
hunting,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indispen- 
sable to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those 
days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  fur- 
virtuously  so  slice  died  most  Godly.  Set  downe  by  him  yt 
best  did  kiiowe  what  hath  byn  written  to  be  true. 

Thomas  Lueye. 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his 
time,  observes,  "  his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  differ- 
ent families  of  dogs,  and  serving-men  attendant  on  their  ken- 
nels ;  and  the  deepness  of  their  throats  is  the  depth  of  his 
discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the  true  burden  of  nobility, 
and  is  exceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  delighted  with  the 
sport,  and  have  his  list  gloved  with  his  jesses.'*  And  Gilpin, 
in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks.  "  he  kept  all 
sorts  of  hounds  that  run  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger, 
and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and  short  winged.  His 
great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  marrow  bones,  and 
full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers.  On  a 
broad  hearth  paved  with  brick  lay  some  of  the  choicest  ter- 
riers, hounds,  and  spaniels.'1 

176 


Stratford-on-A 


von 


ni.ture  of  the  hall  had  disappeared;  for  1 
had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately  elbow- 
chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country 
squire  of  former  days  was  wont  to  sway  the 
sceptre  of  empire  over  his  rural  domains; 
and  in  which  it  might  be  presumed  the  re- 
doubted Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful 
state  when  the  recreant  Shakspeare  was 
brought  before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out 
pictures  for  my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased 
myself  with  the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had 
been  the  scene  of  the  unlucky  bard's  exam- 
ination on  the  morning  after  his  captivity  in 
the  lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural 
potentate,  surrounded  by  his  body-guard  of 
butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serving-men, 
with  their  badges;  while  the  luckless  culprit 
was  brought  in,  forlorn  and  chopfallen,  in 
the  custody  of  gamekeepers,  huntsmen,  and 
whippers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble  rout 
of  country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of 
curious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half- 
opened  doors;  while  from  the  gallery  the 
fair  daughters  of  the  knight  leaned  grace- 
fully forward,  eyeing  the  youthful  prisoner 
with  that  pity  "  that  dwells  in  womanhood." 
Who  would  have  thought  that  this  poor  var- 
let,  thus  trembling  before  the  brief  author- 
ity of  a  country  squire,  and  the  sport  of  rus- 
tic boors,  was  soon  to  become  the  delight  of 
princes,  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages, 
the  dictator  to  the  human  mind,  and  was  to 
177 


Washington   Irving 

confer  immortality  on  his  oppressor  by  a  car- 
icature and  a  lampoon? 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk 
into  the  garden,  and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit 
the  orchard  and  arbor  where  the  justice 
treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence 
"  to  a  last  year's  pippin  of  his  own  grafting, 
with  a  dish  of  caraways;"  but  I  had  already 
spent  so  much  of  the  day  in  my  ramblings 
that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  any  further 
investigations.  When  about  to  take  my 
leave  I  was  gratified  bjr  the  civil  entreaties 
of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  I  would 
take  some  refreshment;  an  instance  of  good 
old  hospitality  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  we 
castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in  modern 
days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which 
the  present  representative  of  the  Lucys  in- 
herits from  his  ancestors;  for  Shakspeare, 
even  in  his  caricature,  makes  Justice  Shal- 
low importunate  in  this  respect,  as  witness 
his  pressing  instances  to  Falstaff: 

"By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away 
to-night  *  *  *  I  will  not  excuse  you;  you  shall 
not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  ad- 
mitted; there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you 
shall  not  be  excused  *  *  *.  Some  pigeons, 
Davy;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens;  a  joint 
of  mutton;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kick- 
shaws, tell  William  Cook." 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old 

178 


Stratford-on- A  v  on 

hall.  My  mind  had  become  so  completely 
possessed  by  the  imaginary  scenes  and  char- 
acters connected  with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be 
actually  living  among  them.  Everything 
brought  them  as  it  were  before  my  eyes;  and 
as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I 
almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of 
Master  Silence  quavering  forth  his  favorite 
ditty: 

"  'T  is  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide!  " 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but 
reflect  on  the  singular  gift  of  the  poet;  to  be 
able  thus  to  spread  the  magic  of  his  mind 
over  the  very  face  of  nature;  to  give  to 
things  and  places  a  charm  and  character  not 
their  own,  and  to  turn  this  "  working-day 
world  "  into  a  perfect  fairyland.  He  is  in- 
deed the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  op- 
erates, not  upon  the  senses,  but  upon  the 
imagination  and  the  heart.  Under  the  wiz- 
ard influence  of  Shakspeare  I  had  been  walk- 
ing all  day  in  a  complete  delusion.  I  had 
surveyed  the  landscape  through  the  prism 
of  poetry,  which  tinged  every  object  with 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  sur- 
rounded with  fancied  beings;  with  mere 
airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic  power; 
yet  which,  to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of 
reality.  I  had  heard  Jaques  soliloquize 
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Washington   Irving 

beneath  his  oak;  had  beheld  the  fair  Rosa- 
lind and  her  companion  adventuring  through 
tbe  woodlands;  and,  above  all,  had  been 
once  more  present  in  spirit  with  fat  Jack 
Falstaff  and  his  contemporaries,  from  the 
august  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle 
Master  Slender  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page. 
Ten  thousand  honors  and  blessings  on  the 
bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull  realities 
of  life  with  innocent  illusions;  who  has 
spread  exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in 
my  checkered  path;  and  beguiled  my  spirit 
in  many  a  lonely  hour,  with  all  the  cordial 
and  cheerful  sympathies  of  social  life! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on 
my  return,  I  paused  to  contemplate  the  dis- 
tant church  in  which  the  poet  lies  buried, 
and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  malediction 
which  has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its 
quiet  and  hallowed  vaults.  What  honor 
could  his  name  have  derived  from  being 
mingled  in  dusty  companionship  with  the 
epitaphs  and  escutcheons  and  venal  eulo- 
giums  of  a  titled  multitude?  What  would  a 
crowded  corner  in  Westminster  Abbey  have 
been,  compared  with  this  reverend  pile, 
which  seems  to  stand  in  beautiful  loneli- 
ness as  his  sole  mausoleum?  The  solicitude 
about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  offspring 
of  an  over-wrought  sensibility;  but  human 
nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices; 
and  its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  min- 
180 


Stratford-on-Avon 

gled  with  these  factitious  feelings.  He  who 
has  sought  renown  about  the  world,  and  has 
reaped  a  full  harvest  of  worldly  favor,  will 
find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no  ad- 
miration, no  applause  so  sweet  to  the  soul 
as  that  which  springs  up  in  his  native 
place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be  gath- 
ered in  peace  and  honor  among  his  kindred 
and  his  early  friends.  And  when  the  weary 
heart  and  failing  head  'begin  to  warn  him 
that  the  evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he 
turns  as  fondly  as  does  the  infant  to  the 
mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in  the  bosom 
of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of 
the  youthful  bard  when,  wandering  forth  in 
disgrace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  he  cast 
back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home, 
could  he  have  foreseen  that,  before  many 
years,  he  should  return  to  it  covered  with 
renown;  that  his  name  should  become  the 
boast  and  glory  of  his  native  place;  that 
his  ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  as 
its  most  precious  treasure;  and  that  its 
lessening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed 
in  tearful  contemplation,  should  one  day  be- 
come the  beacon  towering  amidst  the  gentle 
landscape,  to  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of 
every  nation  to  his  tomb! 


181 


The  Stout  Gentleman 


A    STAGE-COACH    ROMANCE 


183 


The   Stout   Gentleman 

A    STAGE-COACH     ROMANCE 

I'll  croi-s  it  though  it  blast  me  ! 

Hamlet. 

It  was  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy 
month  of  November.  I  had  been  detained,  in 
the  course  of  a  journey,  by  a  slight  indis- 
position, from  which  I  was  recovering;  but 
was  still  feverish,  and  obliged  to  keep  within 
doors  all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the  small  town 
of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a  country  inn! 
— whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experience 
one  can  alone  judge  of  my  situation.  The 
rain  pattered  against  the  casements;  the 
bells  tolled  for  church  with  a  melancholy 
sound.  I  went  to  the  windows  in  quest  of 
something  to  amuse  the  eye;  but  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  been  placed  completely  out  of  the 
reach  of  all  amusement.  The  windows  of 
my  bedroom  looked  out  among  tiled  roofs 
and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of  my 
sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view  of  the 
stable-yard.  I  know  of  nothing  more  cal- 
culated to  make  a  man  sick  of  this  world 
185. 


Washington   Irving 

than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The 
place  was  littered  with  wet  straw  that  had 
been  kicked  about  by  travellers  and  stable- 
boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant  pool 
of  water,  surrounding  an  island  of  muck; 
there  were  several  half-drowned  fowls 
crowded  together  under  a  cart,  among  which 
was  a  miserable,  crest-fallen  cock,  drenched 
out  of  all  life  and  spirit,  his  drooping  tail 
matted,  as  it  were,  into  a  single  feather, 
along  which  the  water  trickled  from  his 
back;  near  the  cart  was  a  half-dozing  cow, 
chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to 
be  rained  on,  with  wreaths  of  vapor  rising 
from  her  reeking  hide;  a  wall-eyed  horse, 
tired  of  the  loneliness  of  the  stable,  was 
poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  a  window, 
with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the  eaves; 
an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  doghouse 
hard  by,  uttered  something,  every  now  and 
then,  between  a  bark  and  a  yelp;  a  drab 
of  a  kitchen-wench  tramped  backward  and 
forward  through  the  yard  in  pattens,  looking 
as  sulky  as  the  weather  itself;  everything, 
in  short,  was  comfortless  and  forlorn,  ex- 
cepting a  crew  of  hardened  ducks,  assembled 
like  boon  companions  round  a  puddle,  and 
making  a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I   was    lonely    and    listless,    and    wanted 
amusement.     My  room  soon  become   insup- 
portable.    I  abandoned  it,  and  sought  what 
is    technically    called    the    travellers'    room. 
1S6 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

This  is  a  public  room  set  apart  at  most 
inns  for  the  accommodation  of  a  class  of 
wayfarers  called  travellers,  or  riders;  a  kind 
of  commercial  knights-errant,  who  are  in- 
cessantly scouring  the  kingdom  in  gigs,  on 
horseback,  or  by  coach.  They  are  the  only 
successors  that  I  know  of  at  the  present  day 
to  the  knights-errant  of  yore.  They  lead 
the  same  kind  of  roving,  adventurous  life, 
only  changing  the  lance  for  a  driving-whip, 
the  buckler  for  a  pattern-card,  and  the  coat 
of  mail  for  an  upper  Benjamin.  Instead 
of  vindicating  the  charms  of  peerless  beauty, 
they  rove  about,  spreading  the  fame  and 
standing  of  some  substantial  tradesman,  or 
manufacturer,  and  are  ready  at  any  time  to 
bargain  in  his  name;  it  being  the  fashion 
nowadays  to  trade,  instead  of  fight,  with  one 
another.  As  the  room  of  the  hostel,  in  the 
good  old  fighting-times,  would  be  hung 
round  at  night  with  the  armor  of  wayworn 
warriors,  such  as  coats  of  mail,  falchions, 
and  yawning  helmets,  so  the  travellers' 
room  is  garnished  with  the  harnessing  of 
their  successors,  with  box-coats,  whips  of 
all  kinds,  spurs,  gaiters,  and  oil-cloth  cov- 
ered hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these 
worthies  to  talk  wit]),  but  was  disappointed. 
There  were,  indeed,  two  or  three  in  the 
room;  but  I  could  make  nothing  of  them. 
One  was  just  finishing  his  breakfast,  quar- 
187 


Washington   Irving 

relling  with  his  bread  and  butter,  and  huf- 
fing the  waiter;  another  buttoned  on  a  pair 
of  gaiters,  with  many  execrations  at  Boots 
for  not  having  cleaned  his  shoes  well;  a 
third  sat  drumming  on  the  table  with  his 
fingers  and  looking  at  the  rain  as  it  streamed 
down  the  window-glass;  they  all  appeared 
infected  by  the  weather,  and  disappeared,  one 
after  the  other,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  people,  picking  their  way  to 
church,  with  petticoats  -hoisted  midleg  high, 
and  dripping  umbrellas.  The  bell  ceased  to 
toll,  and  the  streets  became  silent.  I  then 
amused  myself  with  watching  the  daughters 
of  a  tradesman  opposite;  who,  being  con- 
fined to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their 
Sunday  finery,  played  off  their  charms  at  the 
front  windows,  to  fascinate  the  chance  ten- 
ants of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  sum- 
moned away  by  a  vigilant,  vinegar-faced 
mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further  from 
without  to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long- 
lived  day?  I  was  sadly  nervous  and  lonely; 
and  everything  about  an  inn  seems  calcu- 
lated to  make  a  dull  day  ten  times  duller. 
Old  newspapers,  smelling  of  beer  and  to- 
bacco-smoke, and  which  I  had  already  read 
half  a  dozen  times.  Good-for-nothing  books, 
that  were  worse  than  rainy  weather.  I  bored 
myself  to  death  with  an  old  volume  of  the 
188 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

Lady's  Magazine.  I  read  all  the  common- 
place names  of  ambitious  travellers  scrawled 
on  the  panes  of  glass;  the  eternal  families 
of  the  Smiths,  and  the  Browns,  and  the 
Jacksons,  and  the  Johnsons,  and  all  the 
other  sons;  and  I  deciphered  several  scraps 
of  fatiguing  inn-window  poetry  which  I  have 
met  with  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy; 
the  slovenly,  ragged,  spongy  cloud  drifted 
heavily  along;  there  was  no  variety  even  in 
the  rain:  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  monot- 
onous patter — patter — patter,  excepting  that 
now  and  then  I  was  enlivened  by  the  idea  of 
a  brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of  the 
drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  al- 
lowed a  hackneyed  phrase  of  the  day)  when, 
in  the  course  of  the  morning,  a  horn  blew, 
and  a  stage-coach  whirled  through  the 
street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck  all 
over  it,  cowering  under  cotton  umbrellas, 
and  seethed  together,  and  reeking  with  the 
steams  of  wet  box-coats  and  upper  Benja- 
mins. 

The  sound  brought  out  from  their  lurk- 
ing-places a  crew  of  vagabond  boys,  and 
vagabond  dogs,  and  the  carroty-headed  hos- 
tler, and  that  nondescript  animal  ycleped 
Boots,  and  all  the  other  vagabond  race  that 
infest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn;  but  the  bustle 
was  transient;  the  coach  again  whirled  on 
189 


Washington  Irving 

its  way;  and  boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and 
Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to  their  holes; 
the  street  again  became  silent,  and  the  rain 
continued  to  rain  on.  In  fact,  there  was  no 
hope  of  its  clearing  up;  the  barometer 
pointed  to  rainy  weather;  mine  hostess's 
tortoise-shell  cat  sat  by  the  fire  washing  her 
face,  and  rubbing  her  paws  over  her  ears; 
and,  on  referring  to  the  Almanac,  I  found  a 
direful  prediction  stretching  from  the  top 
of  the  page  to  the  bottom  through  the 
whole  month,  "expect — much — rain — about— 
this — time!  " 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped.  The  hours 
seemed  as  if  they  would  never  creep  by. 
The  very  ticking  of  the  clock  became  irk- 
some. At  length  the  stillness  of  the  house 
was  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  a  bell. 
Shortly  after  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  waiter 
at  the  bar  :  "  The  stout  gentleman  in  No. 
13  wants  his  breakfast.  Tea  and  bread  and 
butter,  with  ham  and  eggs;  the  eggs  not  to 
be  too  much  done." 

In  such  a  situation  as  mine,  every  incident 
is  of  importance.  Here  was  a  subject  of 
speculation  presented  to  my  mind,  and  am- 
ple exercise  for  my  imagination.  I  am  prone 
to  paint  pictures  to  myself,  and  on  this  oc- 
casion I  had  some  materials  to  work  upon. 
Had  the  guest  upstairs  been  mentioned  as 
Mr.  Smith,  or  Mr.  Brown,  or  Mr.  Jackson,  or 
Mr.  Johnson,  or  merely  as  "  the  gentleman 
190 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

in  No.  13,"  it  would  have  been  a  perfect 
blank  to  me.  I  should  have  thought  nothing 
of  it;  but  "  The  stout  gentleman!  " — the  very 
name  had  something  in  it  of  the  picturesque. 
It  at  once  gave  the  size;  it  embodied  the 
personage  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  my  fancy 
did  the  rest. 

He  was  stout,  or,  as  some  term  it,  lusty; 
in  all  probability,  therefore,  he  was  ad- 
vanced in  life,  some  people  expanding  as 
they  grow  old.  By  his  breakfasting  rather 
late,  and  in  his  own  room,  he  must  be  a  man 
accustomed  to  live  at  his  ease,  and  above 
the  necessity  of  early  rising;  no  doubt,  a 
round,  rosy,  lusty  old  gentleman. 

There  was  another  violent  ringing.  The 
stout  gentleman  was  impatient  for  his 
breakfast.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of  im- 
portance; "  well  to  do  in  the  world;  "  accus- 
tomed to  be  promptly  waited  upon;  of  a 
keen  appetite,  and  a  little  cross  when  hun- 
gry; "  perhaps,"  thought  I,  "  he  may  be 
some  Ldndon  Alderman;  or  who  knows  but 
he  may  be  a  Member  of  Parliament?  " 

The  breakfast  was  sent  up,  and  there  was 
a  short  interval  of  silence;  he  was,  doubt- 
less, making  the  tea.  Presently  there  was  a 
violent  ringing;  and  before  it  could  be  an- 
swered, another  ringing  still  more  violent. 
"  Bless  me!  what  a  choleric  old  gentleman!  " 
The  waiter  came  down  in  a  huff.  The  butter 
was  rancid,  the  eggs  were  overdone,  the 
191 


Washington   Irving 

ham  was  too  salt;  the  stout  gentleman  was 
evidently  nice  in  his  eating;  one  of  those 
who  eat  and  growl,  and  keep  the  waiter  on 
the  trot,  and  live  in  a  state  militant  with 
the  household. 

The  hostess  got  into  a  fume.  I  should  ob- 
serve that  she  was  a  brisk,  coquettish 
woman;  a  little  of  a  shrew,  and  something 
of  a  slammerkin,  but  very  pretty  withal; 
with  a  nincompoop  for  a  husband,  as  shrews 
are  apt  to  have.  She  rated  the  servants 
roundly  for  their  negligence  in  sending  up  so 
bad  a  breakfast,  but  said  not  a  word  against 
the  stout  gentleman;  by  which  I  clearly  per- 
ceived that  he  must  be  a  man  of  conse- 
quence, entitled  to  make  a  noise  and  to  give 
trouble  at  a  country  inn.  Other  eggs,  and 
ham,  and  bread  and  butter  were  sent  up. 
They  appeared  to  be  more  graciously  re- 
ceived; at  least  there  was  no  further  com- 
plaint. 

I  had  not  made  many  turns  about  the 
travellers'  room,  when  there  was  another 
ringing.  Shortly  afterward  there  was  a  stir 
and  an  inquest  about  the  house.  The  stout 
gentleman  wanted  the  Times  or  the  Chron- 
icle newspaper.  I  set  him  down,  therefore, 
for  a  Whig;  or,  rather,  from  his  being  so 
absolute  and  lordly  where  he  had  a  chance, 
I  suspected  him  of  being  a  Radical.  Hunt,  I 
had  heard,  was  a  large  man;  "who  knows," 
thought  I,  "  but  it  is  Hunt  himself!  " 
192 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

My  curiosity  began  to  be  awakened.  I  in- 
quired of  the  waiter  who  was  this  stout  gen- 
tleman that  was  making  all  this  stir;  but 
I  could  get  no  information:  nobody  seemed 
to  know  his  name.  The  landlords  of  bustling 
inns  seldom  trouble  their  heads  about  the 
names  or  occupations  of  their  transient 
guests.  The  color  of  a  coat,  the  shape  or 
size  of  the  person,  is  enough  to  suggest  a 
travelling  name.  It  is  either  the  tall  gentle- 
man, or  the  short  gentleman,  or  the  gentle- 
man in  black,  or  the  gentleman  in  snuff- 
color;  or,  as  in  the  present  instance,  the 
stout  gentleman.  A  designation  of  the  kind 
once  hit  on,  answers  every  purpose,  and 
saves  all  further  inquiry- 
Rain — rain — rain!  pitiless,  ceaseless  rain! 
No  such  thing  as  putting  a  foot  out  of  doors, 
and  no  occupation  nor  amusement  within. 
By  and  by  I  heard  some  one  walking  over- 
head. It  was  in  the  stout  gentleman's  room. 
He  evidently  was  a  large  man  by  the  heavi- 
ness of  his  tread;  and  an  old  man  from  his 
wearing  such  creaking  soles.  "  He  is  doubt- 
less," thought  I,  "  some  rich  old  square-toes 
of  regular  habits,  and  is  now  taking  exercise 
after  breakfast." 

I  now  read  all  the  advertisements  of 
coaches  and  hotels  that  were  stuck  about  the 
mantelpiece.  The  Lady's  Magazine  had  be- 
come an  abomination  to  me;  it  was  as  te- 
dious as  the  day  itself.  I  wandered  out,  not 
193 


Washington  Irving 

knowing  what  to  do,  and  ascended  again 
to  my  room.  I  had  not  been  there  long, 
when  there  was  a  squall  from  a  neighbor- 
ing bedroom.  A  door  opened  and  slammed 
violently;  a  chambermaid,  that  I  had  re- 
marked for  having  a  ruddy,  good-humored 
face,  went  downstairs  in  a  violent  flurry. 
The  stout  gentleman  had  been  rude  to  her! 

This  sent  a  whole  host  of  my  deductions  to 
the  deuce  in  a  moment.  This  unknown  per- 
sonage could  not  be  an  old  gentleman;  for 
old  gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  be  so  obstrep- 
erous to  chambermaids.  He  could  not  be 
a  young  gentleman;  for  young  gentlemen  are 
not  apt  to  inspire  such  indignation.  He 
must  be  a  middle-aged  man,  and  confounded 
ugly  into  the  bargain,  or  the  girl  would  not 
have  taken  the  matter  in  such  terrible  dud- 
geon.    I  confess  I  was  sorely  puzzled. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  the  voice  of  my 
landlady.  I  caught  a  glance  of  her  as  she 
came  tramping  up-stairs — her  face  glowing, 
hercap  flaring,  her  tongue  wagging  the  whole 
way.  "  She'd  have  no  such  doings  in  her 
house,  she'd  warrant.  If  gentlemen  did 
spend  money  freely,  it  was  no  rule.  She'd 
have  no  servant-maids  of  hers  treated  in 
that  way,  when  they  were  about  their  work, 
that's  what  she  wouldn't." 

As  I  hate  squabbles,  particularly  with 
women,  and  above  all  with  pretty  women,  1" 
-slunk  back  into  my  room,  and  partly  closed 
194 


The   Stout  Gentleman 

the  door;  but  my  curiosity  was  too  much 
excited  not  to  listen.  The  landlady  marched 
intrepidly  to  the  enemy's  citadel,  and  entered 
it  with  a  storm:  the  door  closed  after  her. 
I  heard  her  voice  in  high  windy  clamor 
for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  it  gradually 
subsided,  like  a  gust  of  wind  in  a  garret; 
then  there  was  a  laugh;  then  I  heard  noth- 
ing more. 

After  a  little  while  my  landlady  came  out 
with  an  odd  smile  on  her  face,  adjusting  her 
cap,  which  was  a  little  on  one  side.  As  she 
went  down  stairs,  I  heard  the  landlord  ask 
her  what  was  the  matter;  she  said,  "  Noth- 
ing at  all,  only  the  girl's  a  fool."  I  was  more 
than  ever  perplexed  what  to  make  of  this 
unaccountable  personage,  who  could  put  a 
good-natured  chambermaid  in  a  passion,  and 
send  away  a  termagant  landlady  in  smiles. 
He  could  not  be  so  old,  nor  cross,  nor  ugly 
either. 

I  had  to  go  to  work  at  his  picture  again, 
and  to  paint  him  entirely  different.  I  now 
set  him  down  for  one  of  those  stout  gentle- 
men that  are  frequently  met  with  swagger- 
ing about  the  doors  of  country  inns.  Moist, 
merry  fellows,  in  Belcher  handkerchiefs, 
whose  bulk  is  a  little  assisted  by  malt- 
liquors.  Men  who  have  seen  the  world,  and 
been  sworn  at  Highgate;  who  are  used  to 
tavern-life;  up  to  all  the  tricks  of  tapsters, 
and  knowing  in  the  ways  of  sinful  publi- 
195 


Washington  Irving 

cans.  Free-livers  on  a  small  scale;  who  are 
prodigal  within  the  compass  of  a  guinea; 
who  call  all  the  waiters  by  name,  tousle  the 
maids,  gossip  with  the  landlady  at  the  bar, 
and  prose  over  a  pint  of  port,  or  a  glass  of 
negus,  after  dinner. 

The  morning  wore  away  in  forming  these 
and  similar  surmises.  As  fast  as  I  wove  one 
system  of  belief,  some  movement  of  the  un- 
known would  completely  overturn  it,  and 
throw  all  my  thoughts  again  into  confusion. 
Such  are  the  solitary  operations  of  a  fever- 
ish mind.  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely 
nervous;  and  the  continual  meditation  on 
the  concerns  of  this  invisible  personage  be- 
gan to  have  its  effect — I  was  getting  a  fit 
of  the  fidgets. 

Dinner-time  came.  I  hoped  the  stout  gen- 
tleman might  dine  in  the  travellers'  room, 
and  that  I  might  at  length  get  a  view  of 
his  person;  but  no — he  had  dinner  served  in 
his  own  room.  What  could  be  the  meaning 
of  this  solitude  and  mystery?  He  could  not 
be  a  radical;  there  was  something  too  aris- 
tocratical  in  thus  keeping  himself  apart  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  condemning  him- 
self to  his  own  dull  company  throughout  a 
rainy  day.  And  then,  too,  he  lived  too  well 
for  a  discontented  politician.  He  seemed  to 
expatiate  on  a  variety  of  dishes,  and  to  sit 
over  his  wine  like  a  jolly  friend  of  good  liv- 
ing. Indeed,  my  doubts  on  this  head  were 
196 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

soon  at  an  end;  for  he  could  not  have  fin- 
ished his  first  bottle  before  I  could  faintly 
hear  him  humming  a  tune;  and  on  listening 
I  found  it  to  be  "  God  Save  the  King." 
'T  was  plain,  then,  he  was  no  radical,  but 
a  faithful  subject;  one  who  grew  loyal  over 
his  bottle,  and  was  ready  to  stand  by  king 
and  constitution,  when  he  could  stand  by 
nothing  else.  But  who  could  he  be?  My 
conjectures  began  to  run  wild.  Was  he  not 
some  personage  of  distinction  travelling  in- 
cog.? "God  knows!  "  said  I,  at  my  wits' 
end;  "  it  may  be  one  of  the  royal  family  for 
aught  I  know,  for  they  are  all  stout  gentle- 
men! " 

The  weather  continued  rainy.  The  mys- 
terious unknown  kept  his  room,  and,  as  far 
as  I  could  judge,  his  chair,  for  I  did  not  hear 
him  move.  In  the  mean  time,  as  the  day  ad- 
vanced, the  travellers'  room  began  to  be  fre- 
quented. Some,  who  had  just  arrived,  came 
in  buttoned  up  in  box-coats;  others  came 
home  who  had  been  dispersed  about  the 
town;  some  took  their  dinners,  and  some 
their  tea.  Had  I  been  in  a  different  mood, 
I  should  have  found  entertainment  in  study- 
ing this  peculiar  class  of  men.  There  were 
two  especially,  who  were  regular  wags  of 
the  road,  and  up  to  all  the  standing  jokes  of 
travellers.  They  had  a  thousand  sly  things 
to  say  to  the  waiting-maid,  whom  they  called 
Louisa,  and  Ethelinda,  and  a  dozen  other 
197 


Washington  Irving 

fine  names,  changing  the  name  every  time, 
and  chuckling  amazingly  at  their  own  wag- 
gery. My  mind,  however,  had  been  com- 
pletely engrossed  by  the  stout  gentleman. 
He  had  kept  my  fancy  in  chase  during  a 
long  day,  and  it  was  not  now  to  be  diverted 
from  the  scent. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The 
travellers  read  the  papers  two  or  three  times 
over.  Some  drew  round  the  fire  and  told 
long  stories  about  their  horses,  about  their 
adventures,  their  overturns,  and  breakings- 
down.  They  discussed  the  credit  of  differ- 
ent merchants  and  different  inns;  and  the 
two  wags  told  several  choice  anecdotes  of 
pretty  chambermaids  and  kind  landladies. 
All  this  passed  as  they  were  quietly  taking 
what  they  called  their  night-caps,  that  is 
to  say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy  and  water 
and  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the 
kind;  after  which  they  one  after  another 
rang  for  "  Boots  "  and  the  chambermaid, 
and  walked  off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut  down 
into  marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers. 

There  was  now  only  one  man  left:  a  short- 
legged,  long-bodied,  plethoric  fellow,  with  a 
very  large,  sandy  head.  He  sat  by  himself, 
with  a  glass  of  port-wine  negus,  and  a 
spoon;  sipping  and  stirring,  and  meditating 
and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left  but  the 
spoon.  He  gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright 
in  his  chair,  with  the  empty  glass  standing 
198 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

before  him;  and  the  candle  seemed  to  fail 
asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long,  and 
black,  and  cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed 
the  little  light  that  remained  in  the  cham- 
ber. The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was  con- 
tagious. Around  hung  the  shapeless,  and 
almost  spectral,  box-coats  of  departed  travel- 
lers, long  since  buried  in  deep  sleep.  I 
•only  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with  the 
deep-drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping  to- 
pers, and  the  drippings  of  the  rain,  drop- 
drop — drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house. 
The  church-bells  chimed  midnight.  All  at 
once  the  stout  gentleman  began  to  walk 
overhead,  pacing  slowly  backward  and  for- 
ward. There  was  something  extremely  aw- 
ful in  all  this,  especially  to  one  in  my  state 
of  nerves.  These  ghastly  great-coats,  these 
guttural  breathings,  and  the  creaking  foot- 
steps of  this  mysterious  being.  His  steps 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died 
away.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  was 
wound  up  to  the  desperation  of  a  hero  of 
romance.  "  Be  he  who  or  what  he  may," 
said  I  to  myself,  "  I'll  have  a  sight  of  him!  " 
I  seized  a  chamber-candle,  and  hurried  up 
to  No.  13.  The  door  stood  ajar.  I  hesitated 
— I  entered:  the  room  was  deserted.  There 
stood  a  large,  broad-bottomed  elbow-chair  at 
a  table,  on  which  was  an  empty  tumbler,  and 
a  "  Times  "  newspaper,  and  the  room  smelt 
powerfully  of  Stilton  cheese. 
199 


Washington  living 

The  mysterious  stranger  had  evidently 
but  just  retired.  I  turned  off,  sorely  dis- 
appointed, to  my  room,  which  had  been 
changed  to  the  front  of  the  house.  As  I 
went  along  the  corridor,  I  saw  a  large  pair 
of  boots,  with  dirty,  waxed  tops,  standing  at 
the  door  of  a  bedchamber.  They  doubtless 
belonged  to  the  unknown;  but  it  would  not 
do  to  disturb  so  redoubtable  a  personage  in 
his  den:  he  might  discharge  a  pistol,  or 
something  worse,  at  my  head.  I  went  to 
bed,  therefore,  and  lay  awake  half  the  night 
in  a  terribly  nervous  state;  and  even  when 
I  fell  asleep,  I  was  still  haunted  in  my 
dreams  by  the  idea  of  the  stout  gentleman 
and  his  wax-topped  boots. 

I  slept  rather  late  the  next  morning,  and 
was  awakened  by  some  stir  and  bustle  in 
the  house,  which  I  could  not  at  first  com- 
prehend; until  getting  more  awake,  I  found 
there  was  a  mail-coach  starting  from  the 
door.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry  from  be- 
low, "  The  gentleman  has  forgotten  his  um- 
brella! Look  for  the  gentleman's  umbrella 
in  No.  13!  "  I  heard  an  immediate  scam- 
pering of  a  chambermaid  along  the  pas- 
sage, and  a  shrill  reply  as  she  ran,  "  Here  it 
is!  here's  the  gentleman's  umbrella!  " 

The  mysterious  stranger  then  was  on  the 

point   of    setting    off.      This    was   the   only 

chance  I  should  ever  have  of  knowing  him. 

I  sprang  out  of  bed,  scrambled  to  the  win- 

200 


The  Stout  Gentleman 

dow,  snatched  aside  the  curtains,  and  just 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rear  of  a  person 
getting  in  at  the  coach-door.  The  skirts  of 
a  brown  coat  parted  behind,  and  gave  me 
a  full  view  of  the  broad  disk  of  a  pair  of 
drab  breeches.  The  door  closed — "  all 
right!  "  was  the  word — the  coach  whirled 
off;  and  that  was  all  I  ever  saw  of  the 
stout  gentleman! 


201 


